The 60th Hunger Games
by uniqueUsername1024
Summary: This is what I think the 60th Hunger Games was like. It is from multiple tribute POVs and some of the Gamemakers' POVs. Some of the chapters are very long. It is my first fanfiction and is rated T because, well, if you don't know I would suggest reading the Hunger Games books first. (T stands for Teen.) It definitely has twists and surprises and is very sad at times. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I am going to be writing each chapter from either the tributes' POV and the Gamemakers' POV.**

CHAPTER ONE: THE REAPINGS (GAMEMAKERS)

The reaping ceremony was today, and I was watching closely to note each of the tributes' strengths and weaknesses and to know who is going to be in the Games. My job was to take notes on the tributes' weaknesses. My coworker, who I was close friends with, was noting about their strengths. First were the reapings from One. A girl named Sheen with excellent muscles, but a habit of wringing her hands together, stepped up calmly. Then the boy, Gemm, who had a malicious look in his eyes and practically bounded onto the stage volunteered. I wrote down for the girl, "nervous tic" and the boy "no self-restraint". Then on to Two.

The girl, Betha, had a short stature but a cold look in her eyes as she greedily dashed up on stage and avoided the cameras. The boy, Osher, greeted them, tried to draw attention to himself by jumping over the fence that kept them penned in on his way to the stage. I wrote down "arrogance" for him and that the girl was shy and cold and a little on the small side.

District Three had a very different feel, as the escort gleefully proclaimed, "Ladies first!" as they are all required to do. Her name was Samantha Meyer. The girl was a scrawny kid with a profound lack of muscle. She was tripping over her feet as she made her way up. The boy's name was Edgar Othins and he had a better-fed look and a vaguely surprised look on his face as he trudged up the steps to the stage. The wind whistled when the escort asked for volunteers. I jotted down that Edgar was inattentive and that Samantha had poor motor skills.

District Four had the usual muscled volunteers, but something else interesting. Two girls volunteered after each other. They looked alike and I realized that one was volunteering for her sister. She wasn't allowed to, though. It was illegal to take a volunteer's place. I wrote down the usual arrogance for both tributes. The girl's name was Imber and the boy's name was Opthalmius.

In District Five, a young girl named Eve and an older-looking boy named Alf are called. They look poor and tired, both of them. I write those both down for them. An additional weakness for the girl is her youth. She isn't old enough to survive long.

District Six is its usual as well. A small girl with rosy cheeks named Iris and a thin, tall boy named Itus who, curiously, had some muscles. I wrote down that they were both starving.

Districts Seven, Eight, and Nine are the usual scrawny kids who are half-starving to death. The girls are Cleo, Bess, and Lal. The boys are Ridgen, Eston, and Blon. Then on to District Ten. A boy named Cletus and a girl named Marce are called up. Marce has a volunteer take her place, a muscled girl who doesn't look much like her, named Ellk. I jot down weak, starving, all the usuals. Ellk is the only one who doesn't have weak next to her name.

District Eleven is next, with a girl whose name is Rustica and a boy named Triticum. Nobody volunteers for them because, well, District Eleven isn't exactly known for having victors. Triticum is unusually short and slim, and he moves like he is part of the scenery. But Rustica seems to be making an effort to step on every foot and branch she can, and I realize she is limping, which is definitely important to record. I write down for Triticum that allies could easily overlook him because they may not notice him. It's a joke, really. The last thing a boy from Eleven needs is allies that could take him easily that he might also bond with.

District Twelve, the lowliest, poorest district in all of Panem. Me and my coworkers have a running joke that whenever someone mentions District Twelve or weaknesses, somebody says, "Just put down 'everything' for Twelve." The girl's name is Pruna Ashbex. The boy is Foculus Brenx. Jotting down that they are both starving and weak, I turn off the television as it turns to more ads urging you to watch this year's Hunger Games.

 **END OF CHAPTER ONE**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Please review and thanks for taking time to read this fanfiction, when there are probably better ones out there, so consider this a shout-out to you!**

Chapter 2: The City Circle (2 POVs)

EDGAR POV (DISTRICT 3 MALE)

My prep team has me wear a black mask filled with green cream that they say will prevent me from growing facial hair. Then they wax off my chest hair, which is fast because I don't have much. Afterwards they bathe me in 3 different liquids. Only the last one is water. I feel raw, clean, wet, and vulnerable when they are finished.

My stylist, Essette, has all black hair dripping in front of her pale face and has black nails. She dyed her skin paper-white and her clothes are all black and cut up, probably on purpose. She evidently wants me to look the same way, because I end up in an all black suit, wrapped in white wire. A clear piece of glass is in front of me like a TV screen. My hair is swept back under a black hood from the suit because it is red-brown. It looks hideous.

The next step is for me to go into the chariot with my District partner, Samantha, who is dressed in the same way except her naturally black, glossy hair hangs down her back in sheets. I catch myself staring at her and have to stop. She is going to be my rival soon and I need to act as if the Games have already started.

I may be from District 3, but that doesn't mean I should count myself out of the whole thing. Soon I will be slitting her throat, if I had to guess, so I won't be doing either of us any favors by ogling her.

In the chariot I face away from her and towards the crowds. They are too busy staring at all of the other costumes to do little more than glance my way. I don't blame them. District 4 has the same fate as us, dripping in saltwater and dressed as fishermen. So maybe we don't have the worst costumes. But not the best ones, not by far. District 8 is wearing all different kinds of cool fabrics. Some are glittery, others are bumpy, and they have scarves of rainbows. The Capitol citizens go wild, so I assume they are all of the different fashions that are popular right now. As we enter the City Circle, it takes all of my restraint not to cover my ears from all of the noise.

EVE'S PERSPECTIVE (DISTRICT 5 FEMALE)

I am immediately cornered by my preps. What follows is a painful waxing, a bath in something vile, then in water, and then my preps finally leave the room to summon my stylist, Gretcha.

Gretcha has a hoarse voice and green hair with little butterfly clips. Her eyelashes have been dyed a deep blue. Her lipstick is a lighter version of the same color. She dresses me in all white, including a white facemask with eye holes cut in it to see. My hair is underneath a hood that then attaches to the facemask with white thread. I then get to be wrapped in wires and have yellow streaks of paint painted all down and up me— yay! I always wanted to be nearly strangled by someone prettying me up to impress the very people who watch excitedly as I am murdered, cheering for my death. (That was sarcasm.)

Gretcha claps me on the back and grins. "I've done as well as I can for you, girlie. So impress 'em if you can, and if you can't… Well, don't make 'em boo!"

I am left thinking about this as I am forced onto the chariot. Was that a Capitol woman's expression of kindness? She definitely needs some pointers, but who am I to judge? I will be trying to kill people in a few days. So I wasn't going to be able to give her any tips. I stand stiffly in the chariot; angry at my District partner over something that happened before my name, a slip among thousands, was drawn.

Alf, who has like 2 years on me, was in the hallway at school when I bumped into him accidentally. His books spilled out of my hands. And there, in front of _all_ of my friends, he smiled evilly at me and announced that I had just purposely sabotaged him and that I wanted to destroy my diary that he held because it held incriminating evidence that I was planning to cheat on my test. A passing teacher walked by and took me to the office. They didn't bother to ask why he had it, which he didn't. The teachers believed him over me because at the time I was 12 and he was 14. Now, 4 years later, I still haven't forgiven him for ruining my perfect record and my hopes of graduating into a good job, because any mark on your record would obscure that possibility.

As we weave towards the City Circle, I study the Capitol citizens. One has candy-pink hair and turquoise skin; another has bright yellow gems inlaid on her face, hands, and neck. A man with a red face and green cat whiskers and yellow eyes stares at me with a look that clearly states he will be cheering as the life leaves my eyes. "No," I scold myself. "Don't think that way, you _will_ win."

I want to look ahead, but the chariot in front of me, District 4, obscures my view. We reach the City Circle and the president gives a boring, drone-on-ish sort if speech about the tributes and the rebels and how we are lucky for a chance to earn our district money and food, and how this year's Games will be the best ever, thanks to all of the Gamemakers (whom he lists by name) and Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: This is kind of a long chapter because I had kind of the opposite of writer's block. Gloss isn't the mentor because he won the Hunger Games directly after this one, so I decided to name the mentor Sicarium. I would've done more POVs, but this one was so long that I didn't.**

Chapter 3: The Training Room And Surprise Allies

Number of Different POVs: 1

GEMM'S POV (DISTRICT 1 MALE)

The next day, I begin training. Atala, the trainer, says the some boring old thing about survival stations. Me and the other Careers already decided our strategy. Anyone who hasn't yet is going down first. We decided that even though we all knew how to use weapons, the others couldn't learn so half of us would learn actually useful things in survival and the rest would hog the weapons. I was chosen to hog weapons because I'm good at throwing knives, but excellent with a sword.

I head straight to the throwing knives and take aim for the head. The first one skims over the dummy's shoulder and lodges in the wall. The second one lodges right next to the bull's-eye over the heart. The trainer congratulates me, but I was aiming for the brain. Oops. The third knife hits the neck in a definitely fatal spot. I realize that all of my throws go lower than I want, so I aim above the dummy's head and am rewarded with a pat on the shoulder. But the rewards in the arena for a good hit will be much sweeter.

Soon, I am getting 80% of the throws where I want them. Pretty good, but I prefer swords. My mentor, Sicarium, advised me to use them enough to intimidate others. The higher-district kids like 7,11, and 12 can't afford for their only skills to be leaked to us, the Careers, but we want to intimidate the other tributes, give them a good scare. So I ask for an assistant to practice with.

I lose myself in it. I am not afraid to fight hardcore because the swords have dulled tips. Soon I have everyone's attention as I slash my way through her blocks and thrusts. I manage to jab her in the heart, stomach, neck or head many times. Even Sheen, who knows what I am capable of, can't tear her eyes from us.

On the second day of training, the Careers switch. In other words, the survival kids do weapons and me, along with Osher and Opthalmius, do survival skills. I head over to the poisonous plants station since Sheen was the only person I saw there yesterday. I am a fast learner and I soon know about plenty of different plants and how to tell if it is edible. As I head out of the room at the conclusion of training the trainer there reminds me something I have heard millions of times: If you don't recognize a plant, don't eat it, no matter how edible it might look.

The third day of training is all of the Careers trying to keep everyone else away fro the weapons. Anytime they do manage to come over, one of us goes and outperforms their work by a mile and the trainer turns their attention to us. I feel good about my survival chances.

That night, my escort and our mentors want to talk strategy. Sheen, being the total idiot she is, says, "What strategy? We have a Career pack, isn't that the strategy?"

The escort, Bubbilia, who is easily agitated, gets into a frenzy over her dismissal of it and needs to leave. But Sicarium and Sheen's mentor, Ignilia, are made of stronger stuff. Sicarium says in immediate response, "No. Allies and strategy are different. For example, you could have an ally and not know what to do. They are different."

But Ignilia replies slowly. "No, not exactly. An ally like he Career pack is like having someone to watch your back. And in response, you do it for them. Strategy is avoiding the need for them to watch your back, but you still have them in case your strategy fails."

See, this is why Sicarium is so much better than Ignilia. Ignilia could dance around the answer for hours and tell you nothing you didn't know. Sicarium, however, gets right to the point of things. We don't have time to waste until the Games, and he won't waste our time.

Sicarium takes out a piece of paper from who-knows-where and starts scribbling on it. When he is finished, the paper has been divided up into 4 sections. In each is a different step for winning. Ignilia, meanwhile, babbles about something having to do with the Cornucopia and food and drinks and trust. Probably good information, but I cant make heads or tails of what she says. These are Sicarium's four steps:

1\. Storm the Cornucopia, killing everyone not allied with you. Then loot their bodies. Only then do you loot the Cornucopia.

2\. Act as if you care for and trust your allies. Only keep this up as an act, and DO NOT BEFRIEND ANY OF THEM. You will regret it later.

3\. Find a base next to a water source and food source. Divide up the loot between everybody and get situated. Make it feel like home, because it will become yours.

4\. Hunt down everybody else first. Do this with the other Careers. Then catch them by surprise and destroy as many as possible before running away. The Gamemakers will take care of the rest.

I head to my bedroom and try to sleep, but I feel restless. Finally, after fantasizing about my victory moment, getting a 12 in training, and the Victory Tour, I manage to get some rest.

The next day starts with a big, bountiful breakfast of a pastry dough filled with some sort of savory meat that somehow tastes breakfast-y and a glass of something cold. It tastes like milk, but it is brown and someone informs me that they put chocolate it in. Chocolate milk! Only in the Capitol. I devout the glass and get seconds, but I only get halfway through this one. I am too full to eat any, but they also bring out a platter with scrambled eggs on it, except some parts have different things mixed in than other parts. One part has scallions, another bacon, another sausage, and another fruit!

I am herded directly into a small room with 24 other kids. As the District One male, I am scheduled to go first. Good. I want to have their full attention. I head straight over to the sword-fighting station and an assistant comes out to fight with me. I go harder than I did even in training, as hard as I will in the Games. I block every time and I fight to the bitter end of five minutes when they leave.

I turn to them and they show only mild surprise. _What?! Those were insane moves! Professional level, and they look like they want to give me a 5,_ I think to myself. I head over to the poisonous plants station and I beat it easily. Their expressions say plainly that they think a 7 would be generous. I head back to the knives station and manage, by some miracle, to have a 95% success rate. They look like they will consider an 8. Finally, out of sheer despair, I go over to the wrestling station and win like 5 rounds. I decide that an 8 is the best I am going to get; a fact confirmed when they dismiss me.

I head out of the back door and do a bunch of nothing until lunch. A thick, creamy, blueberry sauce to dip small squares of white bread into is the appetizer. This is followed by a pig that has been put on a bed of apple slices cut so thin I could almost see through them. The pig was drizzled in a delightfully smooth, almost sweet cheese sauce that sits lightly on my tongue. Dessert is an arrangement of small cakes not quite cupcake-sized but not real cake-sized either. They are decorated with many different-colored roses.

That night we watch the training scores with anticipation. Caesar Flickerman smiles at the camera. His color this year is a bright, intense yellow. "It's that time of year again! With the Hunger Games so close, I get the exciting job of announcing the training scores! So here you go: The 63rd Hunger Games training scores!

"Gemm has received a 9." A nine! I can't believe it! I thought they had hated how I had done. I personally think I deserved a ten, but I'm not about to turn down a nine. It was impressive.

"Sheen has received a 10." A ten. Sheen. What did that idiot _possibly_ do to get a ten? Maybe I underestimated her after all, but still. A _ten!?_ That was like a victor's score or something, though.

"Osher has received a 9." A nine, same as me. What did he do that got him a nine? I suppose in District 2 they have as good a training program as we do in District 1. "Betha has received an 8." Low for a Career, but still very high and formidable.

"Edgar Othins has received a 5." Halfway. Not much more than I expected. Especially since I got 4 points more than him. "Samantha Meyer has received a 4." Wow. What a weakling. She is going down.

"Opthalmius has received a 10." Better than me. I make a mental note not to let down my guard around him. "Imber has received a 7." Is it just me, or does Caesar look slightly surprised? A seven is not bad for a District 4 tribute, but lower than usual.

A five. For someone from a district of the same number, a 5 is actually okay. Of course, I could take her easily. The thing about District 5 tributes is their _brain._ They get far because they are wily enough to survive in the arena. "Alf has received a 3." I give him 3 days in the arena, tops. "Eve has received a 5."

"Itus has received a 7." Okay, now _that_ worries me. And the way he volunteered, too. I wonder if he acted like a Career, but dismiss it quickly. This _is_ District 6 we are talking about, after all. But at the same time, I consider recruiting him as a Career. "Iris has received a 4." She should be dead within about a day. Maybe two if she doesn't go into the Cornucopia

"Ridgen has received a 6." They both did average, factoring in age and district. "Cleo has received a 6." Usually District 7 is pretty skilled. The kids have to chop down trees after all.

"Eston has received a 2." He could barely start a decent fire with matches. "Bess has received a 4." I wonder what she showed them. Perhaps how efficiently she can tie a simple knot. That was the only station she was at, and her knots still were horrible.

"Blon has received a 4." Wow. Even worse than Lal, which is saying something. "Lal has received a 5." Good for her. She is probably squealing over such a horrible score, excited nonetheless, if her personality at training is any indicator. I mean, really.

"Cletus has received a 2." No comment. Just, no comment. "Marce has received a 5." Not much. Not anything, really. Easy enough to take on.

"Triticum has received a 7." Must be because of the eerily silent way he walks. "Rustica has received a 2." Her limp is almost certainly why. It would be a joke to brag, "Yay! I killed Rustica!" You could chase her down and she couldn't do a thing about it.

"Foculus has received a 3." I'm just glad Haymitch isn't _my_ mentor or I would probably have a 3 also. "Pruna has received a 2." How could she have done even worse than Foculus? That is my only question.

After the training scores, I eat some dinner and climb into bed. It is so soft and downy that I am asleep within seconds. I dream about Claudius Templesmith announcing that I am victor, the blood on my sword still fresh. But I leave away the arena and I am brought into glory. I wear a smile that night as I drift off.

 **CHAPTER THREE END**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Please, please, please review! It means so much to know that you spent a small portion of the 86,400 seconds in a day telling me about my story. You don't have to, but it is very appreciated! (Also you will get a shout-out here!) Sorry this took so long. I have a ton of stuff going on right now.**

Chapter 4: Sunglasses

Number Of Different POVs: 3

LAL'S POV (DISTRICT 9 FEMALE)

I wake up, go to breakfast, and scarf down some of these really yummy blueberry pastries. Maybe not the healthiest breakfast in the world, but I am going to die in a few days. I think I can be allowed a delicious breakfast.

My mentor, Mica Obficiana, has me first. Then my escort Romilio is going to teach me how to walk in high heels and a dress. Mica sits me down and says right off the bat, "What do you think you are doing, little girl?"

"What do you mean?" She just glares at me until I start to squirm under her gaze. "I _mean_ that you have been acting like a foolish little idiot who can't tell her right from her left! How do you think the audience would respond to _that?!_ Sponsors can be your life or death in the arena, and you go out there and act like you don't even _need_ them! What do you think I mean, you insolent little beast!"

I thought it was clear. I wanted to trick people into thinking I was exactly what she said, then attack viciously. _Duh._ But I simply say, "I'm sorry. I wanted to trick the other tributes into thinking I was weak and then surprise them. I got my score with the Gamemakers for a reason." She just fumes at me silently for the rest of the time. I can't tell if she is angry because she thinks I'm right or because she thinks I'm wrong.

It doesn't seem to matter because Romilio stuck his head in the door and asked if he could see me. I jumped at the chance to leave Mica. Mica was always moody, even in District 9. She never came to the grain factory. She never needed to because of all her money, but _still_ , a visit from our most recent victor could easily put a little faith in us and make us feel strong and ready.

When I was a little girl, back when Mica had just won, she was on the Victory tour and everybody cheered for. The victor's district was the only place where the cheers were real, of course. I had felt hope and excitement, which lasted me the entire week or so. Then everything seemed boring and normal again. After that day, Mica seemed to slowly withdraw from other people.

Romilio snaps at me to, "pay attention, would you? This is life-or-death stuff right here! Now, what is your strategy in the Games?" The rest of the morning passes in a blur for me. He still doesn't agree with my strategy by the time interviews roll around. Caesar wears bright yellow hair, lipstick, and eye shadow. When it is my turn for an interview, I decide at the last minute to be silly and giggly and really shallow in general.

"So, Lal, what do you think of us here in the Capitol?"

I am blushing from embarrassment at being in front of my whole country acting like this, but only I know that is the reason, and not a shy pleasure. "Oh, it is truly delightful! All of the colors and buildings and people! If I win, I am going to get plastic surgery to look like the people in the Capitol! They are just like heroes to me!" I can only imagine the bad things my family and friends are thinking and saying about me right now, but the live audience at least looks impressed and flattered. Oh yes, I know how to manipulate people all right. The key is to flatter, flatter, flatter.

"So what kind of plastic surgery would you get?" he asks me.

"Oh, definitely I would have my skin dyed a deep, rich purple and get green hair! then maybe, but not for sure, tattoos all around my face."

"Well, you clearly have a sense of fashion!" Caesar's voice had such an honest quality to it that I had to stifle a laugh. Not that I would ever _really_ get those things done to me, because, well, it is freakish-looking. But I continue to play the cameras and, as a result, the audience.

"I wish I could've grown up in the Capitol like all of you so I could look that way without having to wait until I win! But, then again, I couldn't appear on this stage in front of all of you tonight or win glory and fame for me and riches for my family and friends and district!"

Caesar smiles knowingly. "Is there anyone in particular you want to win for? Any sweetheart back home?" I play along and answer, "Yes, there is. Ergno." Caesar of course asks for more details. I reply, "He is my…twin brother!"

Everyone bursts out laughing and even Caesar can't keep the smile off of his face at that one. The buzzer decrees the end of my interview with an authoritative voice. I step off of the stage amidst cheers. And if that isn't a good interview, then what is?

IMBER (DISTRICT 4 FEMALE)

I am dressed in a flowing, wavy dress the color of fresh copper with tank-top sleeves. I also wear a silver headband and my hair in a bun. One smile in the mirror and I look like a victor. My stylist, escort, and mentor are full of compliments for me. I smile, not out of happiness as much as just to practice for my interview. Being the girl from 4, I am the seventh one to go up. Caesar's color is yellow. It is so big that it hurts my eyes.

He smiles at me and compliments me on my dress. I smile at him. It isn't a grin, just a smile. "So, Imber, how do you feel about getting to be a tribute?"

I look straight at the cameras as I answer. Even though I memorized my reply by heart, I say it slowly and carefully to leave the audience hanging onto my every word because potential sponsors are out there and I want them to feel interested in me. "It is of course the dream of everyone in my district. So, to be here with all of you tonight, well, it is more than I could've ever hoped for."

I know I've said the right thing when he smiles at me. "What of that girl who tried to volunteer for you?" I answer, "She was my sister and I love her a lot. Even though she's strong, I don't think she is fast enough to win yet. At only 12, she is an easy target."

With a mock expression of pain, Caesar begs for details. I simply answer, "Well, you know what love is like. He just seems like the best guy in the world, like a person who can do no wrong." The buzzer goes off and I say my final comment. "See you in a few weeks, Caesar, when I get my victory crown!" Then Opthalmius lumbers onto the stage and begins his interview.

FOCULUS (DISTRICT 12 MALE)

I step onto the stage in a dark green suit and black tie. I look like a piece of broccoli, but with blonde hair and glasses. Caesar is so bright in his neon yellow that I have to squint. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Oh," I reply, blushing. "Just, um, you're really bright. I could use sunglasses." He smiles at me for a brief second. "So, how do you feel about being a tribute?"

"Um, well, I don't think I'll win because, well, I'm not strong or fast. My one asset is that I'm pretty smart." Caesar looks at me, serious. "Knowledge can easily be the difference between winning and losing. So don't count yourself out just yet."

Sensing my discomfort, he changes to another subject, one that I heard him bring up with other tributes, in this year and previous ones. "So, do you have anyone you want to win for, Foculus?" My response is the worst one possible: "My parents." Caesar smiles and opens his mouth—to laugh at me, perhaps? "You do seem like a loyal boy. I would ally with you if I was a tribute." He's helping me, I realize. So I play along. "Um, yeah. So I guess it was a stroke of luck to be picked for the Hunger Games. If I win then my family gets rich and a mansion in the Victors' Village and my whole district gets food." Caesar smiled at me, told a few jokes, and then the buzzer rang out around the room, signaling my interview was over.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I would like to give shout-out to Radio Free Death because they reviewed my story. It made me happy to realize that someone was reading this besides my friends and family. I will change some of the things you pointed out. Also, I realized that the Gamemaker sessions should have happened on the third day, not the fourth.**

Chapter 5: Dizzy

Number Of Different POVs: 2

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT 7 FEMALE)

My stylist gives me the outfit to wear: A green, tight shirt and tight black pants, as well as supple leather boots. Her name is Zoe Restin. "These clothes won't help you much in the way of—well, anything, really except for movement. They are stretchy. But heat and cold will penetrate this thing like a hot knife through butter, but more deadly," she tells me. I idly finger my district token: a small, smooth twig encased in a perfect sphere of amber.

I step into the launch tube and take a deep breath. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry._ The ride up feels long. I wonder if they always transport the tributes earlier than the cameras go on in case something goes wrong. But when I reach the top, I see why it took longer than I thought. I am on a wooden cylinder in the air. There are 12 of these, with two tributes on each. The boy from 12 is with the girl from 1 and their partners are together. Same with 11 and 2, 10 and 3, etc. The Cornucopia lies on a flat rock in a shallow pool. Around it is woods, stretching on as far as I can see. I almost break down right there, but manage to hold it together. I feel like an idiot because I know my face is pale from fear. My mind, though I try to keep it in the arena, is lost to memory as it so often is.

I am only seven years old as I breath in the smell of trees after a fresh rain. I can't keep the smile of springtime off of my face. Looking at all of the children and adults with their axes, the youngest a year older than me, I feel so eager to turn eight so I can join them that I take a stick and snap it again and again.

But my dream morphs into a nightmare quickly when I see my dad, who has climbed up a tree to count the trees we have cut down so far. He needs a high perch to count the stumps. Another person who doesn't realize my dad is still up there, takes an axe and swings. I shout to him to stop, but he can't here so he swings again and again.

My dad falls to the ground. Without looking, I know he couldn't survive that kind of a fall. My mother runs to him and holds his head in her knees, sobbing. I creep up nervously, only to have strong arms take me to the community home. I fight the person but in my ear they whisper, "Ladies and gentleman! Let the 60th annual Hunger Games begin!" gong sounds and I return to the present and all that remains of my future, in this arena.

I cannot climb down this pillar but I can in no way throw myself off, no matter how much I want to. I can't die as my father did, falling from wood. Better to stay here and, in the next few days, die of thirst and hunger. I turn to the boy from 6 to beg him to throw me down, but he has started climbing down already. I watch everyone else, but I feel too nervous to climb down. I will not last the first week.

LUCIA'S POV (GAMEMAKER)

I press a button and the launch begins. For me, this is the best bit of the Games: watching the tributes emerge and take in the arena, or what they see of it. They don't know that beyond the woods, the arena is split in two: tropical and arctic. Some of them have pale faces, others confused, others excited. A few just seem to look and see, but not show any emotion. They must be planning strategy. Not likely to work, with the surprises we have for them.

I press the gong button and watch them. One of the tributes, the 12 boy, a pale little kid with glasses whose name I remember is Foculus, seems completely unfazed. My fingers itch to change that. But Seneca sees it on my expression and shakes his head. So I just watch. The girl from One is on his pillar. The boy from One is with the girl from 12. The girl from 11 is with the boy from 2, and their district partners are together. Suddenly, the girl from One charges him and he just ducks. She goes running off of the edge and hits the ground. She isn't dead, but somewhere close. Her left leg is bent at an odd angle and so is her right arm. She can't move and just lies there until she bleeds to death.

Foculus climbs down slowly and carefully. He is a quarter of the way down when his arm falls from its perch, bloodied. He is swaying, and a good gust of wind could finish him off, but I wait. For now. Another knife hits his calf and he falls. He slams face-first into the ground and doesn't get up. I look at his vital stats, given to us by the tracker in his arm, and see his heart is pumping very quickly but he is passed out. The boy from Four walks over to him and grabs him around his neck for a few seconds. His vital stats go dark. I hit a button to let Seneca know that we've got one down, because he is in charge of the cannon at the end of the bloodbath, which is normally my job, but it's his first year as Head and he wants everything to go perfectly.

I see the girl from 6 hit the ground and lay still. They won't move again. Meanwhile, the majority of the Careers are looking confused as they pick over the Cornucopia. I smile to myself because I had the idea to put only food, water, and medical supplies inside the Cornucopia. There is rope, but only one coil and it glows in the dark. The tributes, however, also don't know that some of the food is poisonous when it enters your bloodstream. This isn't unheard of, only uncommon. I was a child and watched a Hunger Games where the only foods in the Cornucopia were poisonous, which was a delightful twist but made for a short Games.

The girl from 3 is locked in battle with the boy from 11. He wrestles with her until he has her pinned on the ground. He must've known abut the poisonous foods because he stuffs a nightlock berry in her mouth and she lies still on the ground. The Careers kill less than usual, but manage to take out the boys from 7 and 8, the girl from 5, and the boy from 10.

The Careers grabbed some food and left towards the tropical area. The Arctic area, which was on the other side of the arena, beckoned to both from 11 and the girl from 12, who appeared to have an alliance. The girl from 7 is till on her pillar with her face pale. Fear of heights. It's ironic, considering her parents were probably lumberjacks. The girl from 8 and both from 9 fled towards the tropical area as soon as they got to the ground. The girl from 10 and the boy from 3 ran towards the Arctic.

Of course, none of the tributes knew they were headed to either place because woods surrounded the Cornucopia for a while. Seneca looks at each of us and we all nod to say that all of the losing tributes are reported. He presses a button on his screen and eight booms ring out around the arena. I am in charge of muttations this year, so I decide to prepare one that will simply _remind_ the tributes who get too comfortable where they are. Of course, the reminder may result in losing, but it will serve its purpose for the others. I decide to include a psychological twist. I begin work on the humanoid monsters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I know this is an extremely long chapter but I just had more and more ideas. I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 6: Family

Number of different POVs: 5

IMBER (DISTRICT 4 FEMALE)

I run to the side of the pillar and climb down easily. The only hitch was when my hand slipped and I almost fell. However, I grabbed on again. I pick over the loot with my allies. No weapons. Food, medical kits, poisonous plants, a bit of rope, but no weapons. Not even a fork. I keep looking until the boy from 7 runs up to me and attempts a tackle. Without even breaking a sweat, I grab his neck and squeeze. I tow him along with me as I search for anything remotely sharp. I suppose the rope might help a bit, so I sling the coil over my shoulder and continue my search.

My free hand finds its way to a medical kit that I take because, why not? I feel him go limp in my hand but I don't release yet him because it is just him going unconscious. I find some lamb soup and clam chowder. Then I meet up with my district partner, who tells me that the boy from 7's pulse has stopped. I drop him and reunite with the others. We head off in a random direction towards the woods.

After a small ways in, we decide to stop and make camp because we want to organize our stuff and eat. I insist we keep walking because it is barely midday and we should keep going unless we find an ideal spot to camp. Eight cannon shots ring through the air. I feel agitated and so do the others that we only got rid of eight of our opponents so far. The others try to shoot my idea down but we come to the compromise of taking a quick break before continuing.

None of us found weapons, but we do have a great deal of backpacks, water bottles, iodine, food, and medical supplies. I am about to pop some food in my mouth when Betha grabbed my hand and pulled it down sharply. We all look at her and she glares back. "That stuff is poisonous. She's a good fighter. We need her." I have to admit that it feels good to hear her say that even though we are in the arena, which is no place for compliments.

We sift through the food, alarmed by this, and find that about half of it is poisonous. Gemm stands up and grabs some sticks, then breaks them. Then he gives a few to us each and tells us to sharpen the tips. It takes about half an hour. He takes the juice from one of the berries and squeezes it onto the tip of the twig. He hurls the twig so hard it sticks in tree bark.

I divvy up some food so we each have a small meal to eat while we walk. We are each gripping a few of the lethal "darts" that Gemm created. Around late afternoon the trees thin out and soon disappear. The soil abruptly stops and turns into sand. The temperature spikes rapidly, and even though it is nearly sunset a thin line of sweat appears on my brow.

I become aware of my feet being damp, but I am so busy scanning for targets that I don't realize we are in the water until it is up to my knee. Opthalmius and I dive in without hesitation. The others are doggy paddling much slower. I keep going but he turns back and grabs Osher and Betha. We seem to unanimously decide to continue towards a small island in the distance. I turn back to bring Gemm. We reach the island around sunset. In the sky first is Sheen. Then the girls from 3, 5, and 6. The boys from 7, 8, 10, and 12 follow them. We each eat a nicely sized meal before heading off again. I jump into the water and take Osher and Gemm this time. Opthalmius has Betha.

I long to play in the water but instead focus on speed. The second our feet hit land we are off, none of us making noise. Unanimously yet silently we decide on a direction.

We run as one animal, one predator, through the velvet night. We don't stop for the far-off boom of a cannon. We don't talk for we do not need to. We are of one mind, one thought, one body.

Gemm takes the lead and we are what should be halfway through the night when Osher hears it first. He stops short and whispers under his breath. "I hear something. Quiet."

We all listen and hear it, too. A soft rustling in the sand that means another tribute just a few meters away. They have no idea we are here. I tiptoe quietly up to them with the others when Gemm, losing control, rushes towards the tribute screaming. It is Bess, the girl from 8.

Even though it is dark, I manage to make out that she has a permanent camp here. I motion to Osher, Betha and Opthalmius to follow me around the other side. While Gemm distracts her, I tiptoe up behind her and stab one of my darts into her back. Her body will go limp within minutes. Gemm looks up at me angrily. "Why. Did. You. Do. That? She was my kill. That was clear. I was going to take her, but noooo; you needed her for _your_ kill. You need to let others have things and not be greedy in an alliance, Imber. Didn't you know that? Or did you know that and not care anyway?"

He starts walking towards me in a vaguely threating way. I have stepped back until I am almost in the bushes when he jumps on me. I could take him if I wasn't caught by surprise. He wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes. His face is red and only a few centimeters away from mine. He grins maniacally at me. "It's only fair for you to give me my kill back."

My breath is almost gone and I see black spots in my eyes. Opthalmius, Osher, and Betha are frozen in horror and shock. It suddenly takes a lot of effort to not go unconscious. The cannon sounds and he sends me a look that clearly says, _"That's what I'm going to do to you."_ I claw weakly at his hands but I know I have no chance of survival. My vision is about to go dark. The last thing I see before I will go into a coma are Betha's hands reaching down to lift Gemm off of me. A loud crack splits the air. I must be his skull because a bloodied rock drops not far from my hand and there is an odd dent in his head.

My brain is slow to regain oxygen, but his cannon makes me realize that I am not going to die. Yet. I slowly stand up and smile at Betha but remember quickly where we are and that this is a time for hunting, not smiling. We have to go.

But before we leave, we loot her camp so that others can't get it. She has two pairs of night-vision glasses that allow you to see like it is daylight outside. The four of us decide that Betha and Osher should get them. She also has some more food, a sleeping bag, and extra water bottles and backpacks. We pack up and walk on again, not peaking of anything but strategy.

At sunrise we still haven't found anyone else so we head back to our camp. Betha and I are guards first. This is probably because Opthalmius and Osher want to pretend to sleep while eavesdropping on us talking about why she saved my life. It was a good try, but we purposely station ourselves on opposite sides of the island. I am not naïve. I know that the Gamemakers did will not overlook what she did and to escape punishment, we will need to talk about it. But I am not ready to relive what I thought meant certain death yet.

At about 9, judging by the sun, we awaken Osher and Opthalmius and tell them it is their turn to guard. But it isn't easy to slip out of guard mode so I find myself lying awake on the hot sand. Osher turns to Opthalmius and says semi-casually, "So are you going to kill Betha soon?"

The look on Opthalmius's face is complete and utter surprise. "What? Why would I do that?" Osher looks surprised that the idea never occurred to him. "You know, because she saved your girlfriend when it was your job to and took away your honor." Opthalmius's face is blushing red and I wonder what he is thinking. "She wouldn't, she doesn't, she couldn't… She wouldn't feel that way, okay?!" I suddenly wonder if he feels that way but my brain's exhaustion overrides any other feelings and I fall asleep.

BETHA (DISTRICT 2 FEMALE)

The heat of the sun wakes me up before Osher does. It is noon and the heat nearly burns me. I sit up groggily. All three of them are staring at me like I am some kind of creature, and they don't know if I am poisonous or edible. I look at them and make a split-second decision to play dumb. "What is it?"

Osher just looks and looks. Opthalmius busies himself with other, meaningless tasks and Imber takes my hand and leads me to the other side of the island. "What?" I ask irritably.

"Why did you save my life? Twice?" she asks. Imber is to the point, which is one of the things I appreciate about her. It is also one of the things about her that annoys me. She knows as well as I do that I could've let her die either time without blame. She also knows that Gemm was more skilled than she is. But if I told her my real motive then she would either laugh at me or kill me. I know that my only claim to safety right now is her curiosity. I killed one of our allies, perhaps our most powerful one, the one who gave us those darts, and I put us all at risk of the Gamemakers' wrath in doing so. I don't know why I do what I do but I say the truth. Or part of it, at least. "We all know Gemm was psychotic but none of us knew how or when to dispose of him. Then I saw him attack you and something snapped in my mind and I attacked him. I'm not sorry and you shouldn't be either." I tense my arms, ready for Imber to lunge, but she doesn't. Instead she does something a million times worse. She stands up and walks away.

I don't bother to follow her. Instead I draw pictures in the sand idly. They start simple: a bird, a sun, a cup of water. Soon I'm making full scenes from home. Me and Osher in the training center dueling with swords, my home nestled near the mountain as I take my two younger siblings to the market and buy one a cookie. I am suddenly aware of a shadow over the drawing. I turn around slowly to see my mother standing less than a meter away.

It doesn't make sense, of course. Why would my mom be in the arena when I am the tribute? But here she is, clear as day. "I had no idea you were such an artist, Betha." Her voice comes out. Stiff, angry, but still her voice. She advances slowly and I inch backwards. "Families shouldn't keep secrets, you know. You do consider me family, don't you?" Suddenly I realize that this is a mutt, one of the Gamemakers' tricks to scare me.

"Um, my mom is family," I stammer. "You aren't her, though. Um, you are something else. Um, a mutt, I think." She walks closer to me, her head tilted to one side. "Now, that's no way to treat your relatives. I think you need a little lesson in loyalty."

She comes to me so close she is practically on me then picks me up. I twist and turn from her grasp but she won't let go. I slap her face but she holds on tighter. I take one of my darts, then realize they are back on the other side of the island. I twist and thrash around but her grip is too tight. I open my mouth to scream, only to find her hand there already. Then she tightens her hand so much she cuts off my breath. _This is it,_ I think. _This is where, when, and how I die. How ironic, my end at the hands of the woman who was my beginning, appearing in the place she dreaded my arrival in._ I thrash around weakly to no avail. I reach out to snap her neck but I can't do it.

She isn't my real mother but I can't help it. I just can't do it. I go limp and allow my final moments at the Gamemakers hands, when a blade whistles past my nose and lands squarely in her chest. Her hand releases me. I turn to see Opthalmius there with a silver parachute draped over his shoulder that must've arrived in the last few minutes.

I walk back to the campsite, never meeting eyes with Imber. She must have told the others what I said, because they all act on guard around me. I guess when they found out "something snapped in my mind" it made them all nervous. Only Imber refuses to acknowledge me. I can't imagine what is going through her head. That night I am on guard first shift with Osher. I hear a rustling behind me and I see Imber stirring in her sleep. Her hand flaps around until it closes around one of the darts that Gemm made. I tighten my grip on the knife in my hand, anticipating an attack. What I don't expect is Imber to sit up and toss the dart at me casually. My fist closes around it just before it punctures my skin and she grins a me maniacally. I shout to Osher and he comes running.

Opthalmius sits up groggily, but the sight of Osher being held down by Imber with one arm while she smiles sadistically at me and pins me to the ground with her other hand wakes him up quickly. Unsure of what he will do, my hand goes automatically for my knife. I hold it uncertainly between Imber and Opthalmius. She starts talking, slowly but venomously.

"So, you felt no regret for destroying our greatest asset, huh? You put passion before strategy. I would have rather died than see you fracture our loyalty. Looks like you didn't care though, now did you? So make a choice. Die here and now at my merciful hand or run like the coward you are."

I can't run, she knows that, not with her pinning me to the ground. "So, looks like you picked the merciful way out. Well, here it is." She releases Osher and takes the knife from my hand. She traces a design on my cheek, concentric circles of blood and pain. Neither of the boys do anything, or they will risk the same fate. I don't scream. I will not satisfy her in that way.

It is perhaps a completely inappropriate thought to have at the moment, but I can't control it. All I can think is how I could ever have loved her. The moment I saw her, I felt an oddly intense "pulling" as if I was orbiting around her gravity. But now, here in the arena, she snapped. Maybe I have, too, and that is why I saw my mom. Maybe we all have been changed by it. No. We definitely all have.

I look into her eyes and see, for a fraction of a fraction of a second, a girl like the one I loved. And in that moment, I do something impulsive, irrational, and downright idiotic. I raise my head as far up as I can and kiss her on the lips.

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT 7 FEMALE)

I am so dehydrated I cannot even cry about my current, desperate situation. I am stuck on a wooden pole, who-knows-how-many meters in the air, with no food or water. Climbing down is not an option, and neither is jumping off. I sit on top of the pole and sob. My stomach is tearing up inside with hunger and a wry smile crosses my lips. At least I won't starve to death.

Below me I see only the Cornucopia, the woods, and the bloodstained grass. Not even a corpse. If I wasn't dying it would almost seem peaceful. Minus the blood and the Cornucopia. If I squint, I can nearly make out a small, shimmering square up above me but I immediately dismiss it as a mirage. I beg the Gamemakers to finish me off every hour of every day. Tomorrow is the third day, the day I will die of thirst. Looking at the sky in the hopes of a parachute becomes my only pastime.

Suddenly one appears. But the Gamemakers are cruel people for they put it on the ground just at the foot of my pillar. I don't know why, but the sight of it motivates me to climb down beyond any fears. It must have water or food; it must have something from a sponsor. I clumsily make my way down. It is a miracle I don't fall off. I race over to it and pick it up eagerly, my hands shaking from lack of water.

Inside of it are a full water bottle and two loaves of bread from my district. I drink the entire bottle in one sip and yet my thirst is still there. I permit myself only a slice of the bread. The feat of self-control makes my hands twitch. It tastes and smells like home. Not the place of people falling to their death regularly, but the place from my earliest memories.

 _My father's touch is warm and protective. My mother's touch is soft and reassuring. I experience both of them as we walk to the market. For my third birthday, they let me pick out one thing. I choose a loaf of bread to eat that night. We take it home and my mom slices it. Even though we will save it for tonight, she lets me have a small piece now, "to make sure it is tasty for dinner so that we aren't disappointed by our feast," she explains. Of course it is not a disappointment, but instead so heavenly the memory sticks with me after tragedy leaves my family scarred and broken._

I bring my mind back to the present and focus only on not being lost to my memories again. I can't let that happen, not when I am here. In school it was okay because it wasn't life-or-death and my future was set anyway. Not only that but I knew my numbers, letters, colors, and shapes. But the arena must become my past, present, and future, my body and soul, my reason to exist and the place I will not exist for long.

That night I see nobody in the sky and I know that the Capitol audience is going to complain soon. As if on cue a cannon booms in the distance and I can't control my next thought. _One step closer to home for me._ I shake it off. Taking my things with me, I tiptoe into the Cornucopia. The Careers left nothing but a few medical kits and an empty water bottle. I curse under my breath at its lack of water but make camp clumsily. My food and water here, my sleeping area here, the door here, weapons here. I hear another cannon far away and I wonder who it was.

I lay down and try for some rest. It isn't my favorite option, but it is all I can do with no weapon to fight with and no light source to see by. If any sleep was in the cards, which is doubtful, a third cannon erases it. So I squat in front of the cave, looking around for danger. None comes.

By morning, I am exhausted and have no choice but to sleep. Halfway through the day I wake up and cut myself another slice of bread. I have just finished the last crumb when I hear footsteps right outside. I look outside and see Lal, the girl from District Nine. I am confident I could take her, but I would rather avoid confrontation. That is impossible, however, when she spots me inside.

She struts up to me confidently and sits next to me. Wordlessly, she tears a chunk from one of the loaves, and even though this is the worst possible time for it to happen, I drift off into memory.

 _Greedy hands steal a chunk of bread from the bakery shelf. I see it and nobody else does. I see it, and nobody else notices. I see it, and I alone see it. Nobody is disrupted in any way. I see it, and I pretend I am part of the "nobody else" because reporting theft is murder, and I am not a murderer. Yet._

I shake off the memory before it pulls me in deeper because my life is at the hands of this girl. She just smiles at me. Then a giggle breaks its way onto her face. "I am soooo sorry! I must have been so ungrateful to you to just come in here and steal your bread!" Suddenly her face darkened and her tone became angrier and more suited to the arena. Her words cut like cold steel. "I am _ever_ so sorry to steal the only thing you have left of your home, the only thing you will have left of your home. Forever."

She leaps at me and pins me down. I am much taller than her and my mother always used to say I looked like a tree. I manage to get up and hold her on the Cornucopia. I prepare to become a murderer—again. Then I grab her head and slam it again and again on the metal floor. Blood spatters it and her face is terrified. Suddenly I am jolted back into my thoughts again. It would scare me to do this near another tribute if she wasn't beyond hope.

 _A scared face of a young girl stares up at me. She is only a child, not a villain or a monster. She is only a child. Not a criminal, not an enemy. She is only a child and I feel warmth on my hands. I have to don't look down to know that it is her blood on my flesh. I jerk away from her, suddenly terrified at what she means for me, at what I did to her and why. I run and run from that spot and when I reach the well in the center of the town I stick my hands and face inside, wanting and deserving nothing more than drowning. Some animal instinct to survive forces me to bring my head out of the water and I hate it, I hate it so much. I don't deserve any of this. Her life would still exist if mine didn't, if mine never had. But mine did and hers doesn't. I am a coward. I am a coward. I cannot think about her but I do anyway. I am a coward. I am a coward. I am a coward because when my name is called at the reaping I feel happy. I am a coward._

Lal lies there as the life force seeps out of her body. Morning comes finally and her cannon booms loudly. All day, I hear that boom echoed a thousand, a million, a billion times in my ears. Then, that night, I am drifting off to sleep when a phrase plays in my mind. Just once and then I am asleep, but once is more than enough. _I am a coward._

RUSTICA'S POV (DISTRICT 11 FEMALE)

Even I know that my allies would be better off without me and I couldn't care less. I can't fight and I did not come in here expecting to win. I probably wouldn't have survived long at home either so at least my being here has kept a child who would have lived otherwise out of the arena.

Pruna scouts ahead while Triticum helps me walk. It is the third day we have been here and we have found nothing but woods. I know we would've probably found something else if I wasn't with them, but they seem determined not to mention my leg. It makes me sicker than if they had just killed me because of it.

Whenever someone treats me like a toddler because of my leg, it makes me want to scream. But I don't dare do it in here. As we continue, the air becomes slowly more chilled and frost appears on the ground. I start to slip and slide and I realize I am standing on what must be ice. I never saw any of it at home, but I did go to school so I know what it is. Triticum, who I never met until the reaping, must have too because he whispers the word "Arctic" to me. It is a foreign word, one that deals with concepts I have never experienced until today.

I nearly fall over and Triticum's grip on my arm tightens. Pruna slows down and heads back to us and I see her lips are a light blue. Now that I think about it, so are Triticum's. "Clearly we cannot make camp here. We should head back to the woods." I nod my assent and Triticum declares his loudly. Too loudly for my tastes, but nobody comes running.

The pressure of his hand is equal to how his arm was on me when he grabbed me from that tower and took me to my rescue. I don't get why but I doubt he is in love with me because the reaping was our first meeting. I suppose he is handsome enough, with dark skin, deep brown eyes and slim arms, but I refuse to think that way about him. Especially because he could sneak up on anyone at any time with his eerily silent way of movement, so we turn around and head for the woods and a place to make a camp.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I would like to thank "Yanofan" for both following and favoriting my story. Also, I am SO sorry that this took forever to write but I am also working on another story (not fanfiction, so it won't be on this site, sorry) and I got distracted.**

Chapter 7: Safety Found In Fear

Number Of Different POVs: 3

BETHA'S POV (DISTRICT 2)

Imber's lips are warm and protective. I feel her heart race and realize her body is pressed against mine. She drops the knife and I feel its sting in my hand, which is better than if it was in my neck. She hesitates and then kisses back. She whispers in my ear. "Thank you for saving me." I don't try to move and I can hear Sicarium and Ignilia cursing me, but I am beyond caring about anything at all. I just want to enjoy this moment, this now.

I wrap my arms around her and she would to me except that I am lying on the ground. Time stops and I remember why I love her. It's because she is impulsive and brave and kind and amazing. I tighten my grip slightly on her, but not so much that it hurts her. Suddenly Opthalmius and Osher are prying us apart.

Osher gives me the task of sorting our poisonous food from our safe stuff. I find that it balances out nearly 50-50. Imber quickly starts a fire and comes to it with me. To my surprise, I don't flinch.

"Thank you. I can't say that enough. Thank you for saving me from that monster that I became. Part of me came out of deep down and said and did those things. I'm sorry. Listen, we need to run tonight. They don't trust us so we need to run away from them and just go. We have no choice."

To be honest, I had been thinking along the same lines so I agreed immediately. We sort together and I catch a few of her mistakes. It occurs to me that if I weren't here, she would be dead at least ten times over. I push away the thought and the ideas that spring from it.

That night, we volunteer to be on guard. Neither of the boys protest, which both surprises me and worries me. As soon as I hear them snoring deeply, I take their weapons. Imber, who doesn't seem to trust herself, takes a first-aid kit, all of the food, and more than enough water.

We paddle through the water, with her helping me along. When we reach the sandy shore, all I want to do is lie down on it with her, feel the sand along my skin and forget where I am. I am tired, so tired, so weary from trying not to die that I will snap like Imber if I have another sliver of a second of this. But somehow, deep inside, I find the strength to keep moving, keep going. We walk until the sky is smeared with dawn, and then we walk some more. Walk until we are deep in the forest, walk until we have come to a natural spring of water. There are no traces of humanity except, of course, the ones that are everywhere: the Gamemakers' spying eyes, showing all of Panem what they see.

We decide that I will go look for more food because I spent the longest at the poisonous plants station and that she will hunt for animals with our knife. I pick a random direction to walk and look for food of any kind. I have darts on me at all times, but nothing shows its face. Then I see the berries. They are blueberries, ripe and delicious. I open one and see that it is normal inside. It smells normal. It looks normal. I taste one and confirm what they are.

I am busy filling my bag with them and eating them at the same time when I hear a sound that alerts me immediately. A sound that threatens to destroy me with its clarity. A sound I can identify in a moment, or less. The sound of Imber's scream. It lasts for only a few seconds and then there is a sound even worse. Silence.

TRITICUM'S POV (DISTRICT 11 MALE)

I wake up at the BOOM of a cannon. I know the Hunger Games have changed me when I think, "One step closer to home" instead of being filled with dread. Rustica is still asleep. She looks so fragile that I feel an instant pang of fear that the inevitable will happen. If someone, a Career Tribute with plentiful daggers and a lack of mercy cornered her, what could she do? She couldn't run away with her leg like that. Fighting isn't an option for her; even someone like me with two good legs and two good arms couldn't hold their own against a Career's training, so she would be slaughtered in an instant. I watch her for a little while until another cannon shot jerks me out of my trance and into reality.

I look at where Pruna was lying down and anger consumes me: she has left us in the night and has taken one of the two makeshift water containers we made from leaves and twigs with her. I suppose she did some calculations last night and decided that the many disadvantages of having Rustica with us outweighed the benefits of me as an ally. I don't blame her. I would've taken off as well and abandoned Rustica, except—what? I don't love her, not in _that_ way, but I also can't leave her behind. I don't exactly pity her, not enough to sacrifice myself. Then I realize what it is that has been bothering me about her: she is so much like Siligo that it hurts to know that they are destined to have the same fate.

 _I sit by my little sister's bedside. At six years old, she was only halfway to reaping age so everyone assumed she might live a little longer. That was before she got the Influenza Killer. Everyone says it was because of the gash on her leg that an angry Peacekeeper gave her without any provocation, but the leg miraculously didn't get infected. I brush her sweaty brown hair off of her forehead. She looks up at me with big eyes and I see the fear, but also the knowledge in them. It breaks my heart that, at six years old, she has accepted what will happen to her. The virus has left her so weak that her voice won't work, but I know what she would say. "I love you," I tell her as sincerely as anything I've ever said. Siligo is barely strong enough to smile. She is so courageous to smile in the face of death and has suffered so much more than I had at six years old. Her eyes close one last time and, as the life bleeds out of her, I kiss her on the forehead._

Of course, Rustica will probably not contract the Influenza Killer, but in the end it doesn't matter if your end was a swift dagger in the heart or a slow, agonizing disease: your book is closed, your story is over, your tale is done being told. The beginning is the same as everyone else's and so is the end. Only the middle is what is different. Only the middle is the part that has been changed.

I stoke a fire easily and watch the flames dance. I find myself wishing that the traitor Pruna could burn in it. She left me to deal with Rustica. It is the Hunger Games, but I still don't see how someone,especially someone from District 12, could leave another person helpless on the ground to be slaughtered.

I sit there assembling some herbs we picked during our hike yesterday when something floats down into my lap. The silver parachute glints in the dawning light. It has my name on a slip of paper on it; there wasn't really a chance of it being for Rustica anyways. I open it to find a beautifully crafted silver blade embedded into a leather handle. I stand up to slash the air a few times with it and discover that the blade is balanced perfectly in my hands. It must have cost a fortune and I wonder idly who bought it for me; surely not _my_ district. Everyone there is either in poverty or a Peacekeeper, and neither group is a likely candidate. What Capitol citizen would buy me a blade? I realize that it must be someone who wanted action. There must be another tribute nearby. Maybe I can even get revenge on Pruna.

I hear something in the distance and I freeze. There it is again: crackling leaves. I take an offensive position with the sword and wait. Someone walks into the clearing. Without waiting to register a face, I leap at them. One smooth swish of my blade ends them, a scream still trapped in their throat. I turn around and, where Rustica was, I see Siligo. She sleeps there with no sign of the disease that once racked her body. I realize that saved her! Siligo didn't die at home, and it is up to me she doesn't die in the surreal planet of the arena.

At the sound of a cannon, Siligo stirs in her sleep and then wakes up. She looks from the crumpled body of Pruna to my face to my blade to the corpse again. "Where did you get the blade and why did you kill Pruna?" she asks. Her voice comes out as Rustica's and I realize that my ears know what my eyes deny: Siligo is dead, and so is our ally. Rustica is the one standing up shakily.

"I thought—gone—parachute—Siligo—Career—woke up—" I stammer. She raises an eyebrow and I start over. "I woke up and Pruna was gone, so I thought she deserted us. Then I got this sword in a parachute so I figured a bloodthirsty Capitol citizen saw a tribute nearby. Then someone came and I didn't see who it was but I thought you were Siligo and I had to save you and the scream was trapped in them and then you woke up and you weren't Siligo and she got killed and then I kissed her as she died and I wanted to protect you…" I realize that I began to babble again. "I thought you were my younger sister Siligo and then I didn't see who it was and I thought it was a Career tribute and they died before they could scream. I was trying to protect us."

Rustica's eyes flash and I can see what she is thinking. I finger my blade in a casual threat. She understands and backs down, but not all the way. I can't let my dagger out of my hands. I keep a wary eye on her as she stumbles her way to Pruna's corpse and takes the plants, dead squirrel that she must've snared, and water off of her body.

Rustica hobbles back to the fire, sets down the materials, and limps back to the body. She lies Pruna down on the ground and I see where my blade struck her. Pruna's head is almost completely detached from her body. Rustica is very smooth and careful with her movements. Back home, the dead are treated with respect. The body is put on the ground and covered in dirt. A seed is often placed on the layers of mud so that the spirit of the dead person can grow into the plant and they can be reincarnated.

I remember the fear when the preliminary drawings for each village bore my name, but also the futile last hope that my name would not end up picked at the filmed reaping. Rustica's village is near enough mine that our funeral customs are identical.

It takes until the sun is directly above our heads for her to cover Pruna's body with enough dirt to not only hide her from view but also to be thick enough to be planted on. After a few hours, Rustica gives up on finding a seed and instead takes a small sprout from the ground and replants it on the mound of Pruna's grave. Then she whispers goodbye and looks for kindling.

I feel a trace of guilt that I killed Pruna when she was only hunting for food but I remind myself that it was going to happen anyways. I busy myself by making the two of us a salad but my mind keeps drifting from the work and I have to restart several times.

I keep replaying the scene in my head where Rustica's eyes promise revenge as I finger my blade in an obvious gesture. Letting her live will mean my death, but killing her will be too much like killing Siligo. I need to put distance between the two of them. I could make Rustica do something Siligo never would, then stab her. It's messy and bloody, but I'll feel less guilty. I remember a five-year-old Siligo saying something before she got sick, the morning before an unprovoked, bitter Peacekeeper slashed her leg.

 _At five, she had been working the fields for two years. Dawn's rosy fingers are still hugging the sky when we wake up to go to work. Our parents have left even earlier. I warm up a bit of breakfast for us over the fireplace before we head off. These moments where the two of us are alone, these moments where the rest of the world ceases to exist, these are the moments that the real Siligo emerges to talk to me. "How do you climb trees in the orchard?" she asks me. These talks, the times of the world where our lives become better than those of the Capitol citizens, these are the times when her usually timid voice takes on a braver tone. "It's not hard. I could teach you some time," I offer. She shakes her head vigorously. "No way! I could never go up that high!" she blurts out. We resume our terrible, burdened lives after that statement when a Peacekeeper shouts at everyone to wake up and get to work. It is almost noon when it happens. An angry Peacekeeper named Insidae shouts at her, "Hurry up, S11!" He called everyone by his or her first initial then "11." Siligo quickens her pace slightly, but he doesn't care. He takes his blade and slashes across her leg so deep that blood gushes out and Siligo falls over, never to stand up and walk independently again._

I have to get Rustica to climb a tree, but I can't. Her leg is too weak for that. I have to steel my nerves and just finish her off quickly. Considering what would happen if the Careers get her, it might almost be considered humane. Not that the arena is the place for that sort of attitude, of course…

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT 7 FEMALE)

Nighttime has almost come to a close when I hear footsteps coming my way; the soft ones that take straining to hear. I run into the trees to hide as I see the girl from 12 gathering plants. She looks wary of the Cornucopia, as if expecting hidden dangers. I don't stay to watch but instead run and run and run through the trees that are so similar yet so different to the ones at home. I don't stop until I hear noise at dawn: cracking twigs, a curse muttered under someone's breath, and the soft but powerful sounds of sprinting in my direction.

I have the advantage of a mace. At least I think I do until I catch sight of her sleek blade forged in the belly of Capitol furnaces. I still have surprise on my side, but I am about to back down when she catches sight of me. Career Tributes never back down from a fight, even if they are guaranteed a loss, which she absolutely isn't.

Imber leaps at me with her blade extended but I meet it with a crushing blow of my mace, which sends it flying out of her hands and onto the dirt a few meters away. I swing it again, this time making contact with her flesh. I can almost hear it ripping open. Her shirt is beyond saving, and her bloody chest gushes onto the dirt to create a twisted form of mud.

She falls to the ground and attempts to crawl away from me to her knife, but we both know she has no chance of reaching it and stabbing me before I kill her. I slash her again and one of the spikes punctures a lung. With her last, dying gasps of air she manages a scream. Then she collapses and lies there dying in a pool of her blood. In a last effort to bring me down with her, she tosses a knife but it comes nowhere close to me.

The girl from Two, Betha, comes rushing in just as Imber's cannon sounds to confirm her fate. Betha must have been nearby, which means the other Careers will soon follow. Imber only lost because I was lucky, or else she wasn't. But there will be no luck when I face Osher, Opthalmius, and Betha combined, so I resort to my final option: running.

I hide in between the trees, dipping and dodging in an effort to lose her. It doesn't work; she pursues me into a corner. My only hope is that the other Careers haven't come yet, or else don't plan to.

She appears unarmed at first but soon reveals some pointed wooden darts with juice on the ends. Betha doesn't waste time on teasing me or making me flinch; she aims straight for my heart. I barely dodge them and suspect that there is poison on the ends of her weapons. I take my mace, cursing myself for not retrieving the knife, and swing it at her, but she leaps just out of reach with surprising dexterity. I jump at her and attempt to make contact but hit only air.

She throws another three in quick succession, but my attack fazed her enough that she misses. She turns and runs away as I pursue her, unwilling to let Betha go. She will only end up coming after me. I realize that the ground is getting much more slippery until I realize we have left the forest and have emerged into an arctic area. A spontaneous and risky idea pops into my head. I slide across the ice to Betha, knocking into her legs and falling on top of her. I take my mace and swing it into her skull mercilessly until the cannon fires.

I back away as the hovercraft retrieves her body and look around at the barren landscape. There is only snow and ice as far as my eyes can see. I stare down at the spot where her body was just moments ago and a deadly combination shoots through me: fear, adrenaline, and memory.

 _A girl with big, round eyes and night-colored hair stares up at me. Her hands grasp tightly what I know can save me, but in doing so must doom her because there can be no witnesses: a warm loaf of bakery bread. "Please," she whispers. "Please." I know I can't back down unless I want my life to do so as well._


	8. Chapter 8

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about how late this chapter was published. Also, as a side note, this chapter is largely on the same day as the last one. Enjoy!**

Chapter 8: Only The Best

Number Of Different POVs: 4

OPTHALMIUS'S POV (DISTRICT FOUR MALE)

Boom! Later, again, boom! I hope it is Betha and Imber because they left us. That thought rattles around in my skull the entire day. I knew _something_ was between the two of them, but I didn't realize that it was this intense. If any trace of my affection for Imber was left when she went insane, it's gone now. Osher immediately stands up and paces back and forth, occasionally taking out his anger on the sand. They stripped us of our weapons, food, and water.

Here, in the sandy shore with no fresh water or animals, how long can we last without Cornucopia food? The choice is between a merciless forest and slow death by dehydration. I don't call that a choice.

With nowhere else to turn, we head off for the trees. Ordinarily, it would take half the day to pack, but we don't have anything to take with us. I help Osher swim through the water. Our clothes are soaked to the core but I keep them on anyways because my whole country could be watching.

We travel for half the day before finding a snare that someone else must've set up using a cage of sticks. It has caught a juicy rabbit that no other predators have touched when easier game is everywhere. That fact unsettles me because it means that the tribute must be close by. If the rabbit was caught recently it means that the snare is new, and you don't leave an unattended snare lying about it the Games.

Osher grabs it immediately, but we have nothing to skin it with and no weapons to justify the risk of a fever. I wouldn't trust my life in my ability to identify edible plants from harmless ones, so we eat it anyways. I take a relatively sharp branch and slice it up into sections before devouring it greedily.

The sound that alerts me is faint, but years have training have allowed the snap of a twig to be loud enough for me to whirl around. I know hand-to-hand combat because my trainer, Piscus, thought I needed to know _everything_ about fighting. Imber was, even then, beautiful to my eyes, but I thought she was rather arrogant in some respects because she turned up her nose at hand-to-hand. Needless to say, Piscus didn't much like her.

Blon emerges. He is the boy from Nine. Of course, he doesn't have any weapons. His face has a big smile when he sees us. Osher tenses up beside me; I can feel it. Again, training, but Imber saw the importance in this, at least. "You two are going to be my allies—or else."

I feel it before I see it; Osher tackles Blon and pins him to the ground. "Tell me why." Blon struggles to escape, but to no avail. " _Tell. Me. Why!_ " Osher says, slapping Blon across the face. Blon glares at him. "Because you fell into my trap! Rules are rules, and if you get tricked by me then you join me!"

I begin to laugh at his naivety. Just then, he looks up and calls out, "Now!" Something drops around me. A cage made of thick wooden branches tied with vines. I grab it and slam my body against the wood. It doesn't break or even weaken. I do it again and again. Blon laughs. "We reinforced the cage using a trick."

"We?!" I shout. "Who's this 'we' you speak of?"

Blon smiles craftily. "Me and Ridgen, the District Seven boy. You will both join us or I'll leave you to rot in there. The choice is yours." In one swift motion, Osher snaps Blon's neck. The boom of a cannon is instant. I hear leaves shuffling and then I see the flash of our arena clothes. It leaves as fast as it appears.

"Get me out of here!" I scream at Osher. I can see him mentally weighing the benefits of an ally against the downsides of fighting me later. He smiles cruelly. "Goodbye, Opthalmius. I'm sorry, but I don't have the key. The hovercraft takes Blon's body and with it, the key.

Osher turns away, leaving me to die with no remorse. Not that I would've done differently. It is in my nature, in all Careers' natures, to leave others behind if means your own ascension. Like the Capitol, I suppose. If it really was Imber who died this morning then District Four will soon be out of hope for this year. I have to escape somehow. It's the only way to save my family, my district, and myself.

RIDGEN'S POV (DISTRICT SEVEN MALE)

 _Only the best survive,_ I think to myself. _Only the best survive._ This is, of course, the life and law of the arena. But it also is everywhere in the forests of home. I've seen wolves rip the flesh out of rabbits, for wolves are the best when compared to rabbits. _Only the best survive._ But why, then, am I still alive? I can't be the best; I'm just a boy from Seven with no hopes, no family, and no allies.

Blon is dead, Cleo would probably kill me if given the chance, and the Careers could be anywhere. I have to focus. _Only the best survive._ I have to prove myself as the best; I have to beat whatever the Gamemakers throw my way. _Only the best survive._ I have to fight as much as I can. _Only the best survive._ The others are undeniably alive. _Only the best survive._ I can't let emotion into this. _Only the best survive._ I'm almost dead already, and emotion wouldn't hesitate to finish the job. _Only the best survive._ I am the best; I have to be. _Only the best survive._

EDGAR'S POV (DISTRICT 3 MALE)

I have no food and my only water is the snow that I melt with my bare hands and drink. I know that I have probably been exposed to the cold for too long, but my head is foggy and I can't seem to focus on what I'm doing. I heard three cannon shots earlier today, and with each one I felt lucky not to have one played for my death, at least not yet.

At home, I knew how to make electric heating systems with only a battery, a bit of wire, and a paper clip. Here, I have nothing electric to warm myself. I try to pack my things, but when I realize that I have just messed up the semi-organization of the camp, I stop and lie down.

When I wake up, hunger gnaws at me like a wild beast. The world appears to be spinning fiercely. I know something is wrong with me but it's too much work to focus on even that simple fact. For some reason, I feel the need to take off my shirt and hope that the sun will warm my back if it makes direct contact, but I'm too weak for that. I feel my pulse and I realize it is slow, too slow, but I have no idea of what to do. I feel like I can't get enough air, no matter how much I breathe, so I lie back down on the ice and hope it will melt into warm ocean water at my touch. I want to fall as-leep, but the immediate cold is too intense, so instead I get lost in my memories of saying goodbye to the people that feel utterly unreachable now.

 _My father holds his head in his hands, trying to hide the tears that fall out in the spaces between his fingers. I know why: my mother, who gave birth at eighteen, was reaped just month later. And now I, too, am going into the Hunger Games. I need to win for my father, for my mother, for my three younger siblings. I don't know how they will stay alive without the money from my job as a factory worker where we produce machinery. I gently reach out to calm him down, not until later to be annoyed that I was the one facing death, not him. At that moment, all I cared about was making sure that this goodbye would not be my last to him; that I would come back and say good-bye every day before I went off to enjoy my day. Not to work, of course. I would be a rich victor with more money than I could possibly ever use or need to use._

How stupid that dreams feels now, how distant. I'm a poor, malnourished boy from District Three, not a heartless killing machine like the Careers. I'm not like that. Were I given a weapon, some kind of deadly blade or sword, and the perfect chance to use it, to be the victor of the final two, could I do it? Could I consciously make the decision to take another life, to put a family into grieving, to use a weapon to end the life of someone, even if they wanted to do the same thing to me? I want to believe I could, given the choice between their life and mine.


	9. Chapter 9

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I set myself a personal goal: to publish this chapter within three weeks of starting it. I am starting on the day that I published Chapter 8, which is July 5. The outcome (written the day I publish this) was July 10. Five days—not bad. I would also ask you to review, follow, and favorite, except that I actually want this to be enjoyable to read. So I am consciously refraining from asking you. Also, this takes story place on a new day (finally!) There are no tribute POVs. Enjoy!**

Chapter 9: Outsiders Just Gazing In

Number Of POVs: 3

REYNA'S POV (GAMEMAKER)

The audience is going to be sated. Three deaths in one day! Better than even I could possibly have imagined. But of course, Seneca has to go and ruin it all, and just when this year's Hunger Games is a bigger success than ever. Well, "ruined" is per-haps the wrong word the use. He definitely stirred things up, and made the Games more enjoyable this year, but he also didn't give the audience time to remake their bets and get hooked up on suspense. It isn't what I'd do, but that really doesn't make a difference.

Right off, without giving anyone in the audience the time to recover from, in one day, getting to see _three deaths,_ he asks me, as the person in charge of designing the mutts, to make one that will add profound excitement. "They couldn't have made new bets!" I replied automatically. That wasn't the way things were usually done. The previous Head Gamemaker had always left a gap of a few days between deaths before Gamemaker interference, especially when someone like the boy from Three is on the edge of dying from natural causes.

"I want to keep the air of constant action going, not relying on suspense that turns into boredom for entertainment. There's no action in watching a boy die very slowly and bloodlessly from hypothermia. The girl from Eleven hasn't seen much action. Unleash a mutt meant to kill."

I knew that it was no use arguing; when Seneca got an idea in his head to do something, he did it. Or got me to do it, at least. I typed commands into the computer that would alter the genetic material of a chosen animal automatically. When I was finished, I marveled at the sight of my beauty. Or, to some, my beast. It was meant to kill—not to injure, not to scare, but to kill.

THE FINAL EIGHT INTERVIEWS—OPTHALMIUS'S PARENTS (CAESAR' FLICKERMAN'S POV)

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Walsh. How did the two of you feel when you discovered that Opthalmius is in the final eight?" I ask, trying to ease them into being on stage with a natural question that has on obvious answer.

Mr. Walsh shuffles his feet nervously while Mrs. Walsh glares into the camera defiantly and spits her words. "Of course we were thrilled!" she begins, looking like the exact opposite. "Did you think we'd be distraught that he was still alive? If so, you really are an idiot!"

I try to save her and the show from failure with a deeper, personal question that she can't insult me for asking. "What does Opthalmius do at home that has con-tributed to his survival in the arena, and what does he do that hasn't?"

This simple question seems to wake up Mr. Walsh, who jumps in immediately with a surprisingly well-thought-out answer. "Well, he always goes to the gym after school and works out, which is clearly a key contributor to his survival, as he has the brute force that many tributes lack when they need it most, which he clearly does at the moment. But as for what he does that could hurt his survival, well, he has tried his best to smother this impulse, and I was surprised at how well he did it, but back in District Four, he would teach the littlest kids, the two-year-olds, how to swim, and I was always surprised and touched by the gentle compassion he exhibited when doing this."

A bit of an awkward end, but one that I salvage by directing the conversation away from Opthalmius's weaknesses and towards his strengths. "You mentioned he would always go to the gym. Was this because of a desire to be the strongest and the most powerful?" In Mr. Walsh's eyes is a glimmer of thankfulness, but Mrs. Walsh picks up on none of that. "No, it was because he knew that he could volunteer for the Hunger Games and wanted to be ready!"

"So… he wanted to always be prepared for what the future could bring, is that right?" I ask, trying to make sense of what she has said.

"Yes, it's right, you old fool! Are you deaf or something? It's what I told you!" she screams. I realize that the couple is grieving for their son already and that they just have different ways of showing it. Before I can express this to the audience without offending the Walsh family, they walk off the stage.

I turn to face the audience, knowing that the two of them committed suicide when they left the stage without being dismissed in the rudest way possible, but I don't share this knowledge with anyone. "Ladies and gentleman, that was Mr. and Mrs. Walsh! Let's give them a hand!" The applause overwhelms me from all sides, and I forget all about the mourning couple with a death sentence on their heads. It wouldn't be the first time that being on my show has cost someone their lives, and it won't be the last.

ALLYSA GROGGS (CAPITOL HAIRDRESSER, NOT A PROMINENT CITIZEN)

My hair shop may just be a place on the corner of Caesar Place and Julius Street, both named after President Snow's role models, but I hear all of the gossip, and I hear it all the time. While people get haircuts, they can watch either past or current Hunger Games, depending on the time of year.

Miriam White, the lady who lives down the street and comes in every other Friday, marches in today with a look on her face that tells me I will get to hear some juicy tidbit of gossip.

She plops herself down into a chair without checking in, and I rush over to fulfill her ever-changing need for a trending haircut. "So," I ask while preparing the adjustable RinseDome for her specific head dimensions, "What news has you in such a good mood?"

"Oh, Allysa, you naïve hair angel, I can't believe you haven't heard it! The only tribute from District Four still standing, its parents were being interviewed today and they _stalked off the stage without dismissal!_ Have you ever even _imagined_ such a thing? So President Snow, angel that he is, made a speech that they will be publicly executed. Serves them right, I say. You need to put those District citizens in rightful their place, remind them who the first-class citizens are in Panem. They made that decision in the Dark Days, wouldn't you say so, Allysa?"

Usually when she calls me "a naïve hair angel," it makes me roll my eyes. But I almost agree with her today. How could I have missed such big news? I smile and say to Miriam, "Not enough to just kill them. Better not let the boy be victor, either." I affix the RinseDome to her head and turn it on for a few seconds. I can hear the soap and water gushing out of it and into her hair, the soft whirr of hot, dry air, and then it is done. I remove it and run my hands through her soft, smooth, clean hair.

"The 'boy'? It isn't a _boy,_ you naïve hair angel! It's just there to entertain and to make the fish that I'm having for my birthday party, as it is from Four and all. Oh, my birthday party! I forgot to invite you last time, Allysa, but consider it my invite to you now."

She goes on and on about the party, but I'm tuning her out. I can't believe that I made such an obvious and stupid mistake. Maybe I am more of a naïve hair angel than I realized. I can't believe I said "the boy" instead of "it." I might as well have just _told_ her that I was once a District Four citizen myself who stowed away on one of the seafood delivery trains. When President Snow couldn't find me he erased my existence, discreetly killing my family and closest friends. No-body remembers me, and I want to keep it that way. Revealing my secret is the same as certain death.

I smile at Miriam and thank her for the invitation. Before long, she leaves the shop with a hairstyle that I call in my head "The Pink-And-Green Beehive" and I go on with my new life, still feeling like an outsider just gazing in to this marvelous life of luxury in the Capitol of Panem.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Let me start by celebrating a few things. First, DOUBLE DIGITS IN CHAPTER NUMBERS! Secondly, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to "tracelynn" for following and reviewing this story. As for your suggestion to providing a list of the dead tributes at the end of each chapter, I think it is a good one. Here's the list of the** _ **living**_ **as of now, not including what happens in this story: Osher, 2; Edgar, 3; Opthalmius, 4; Cleo, 7; Ridgen, 7; Ellk, 10; Triticum, 11; and Rustica, 11. Thirdly: I have a new story on FIctionPress! (A site owned by the same people as this one, but meant for original fiction that you can bring your Fanfiction account over to.) It's called THE GRAY SPACE TRIALS and I'm pretty happy with it so far. This chapter, by the way, is going to be a special that has the POV of every tribute still standing.**

Chapter 10: The Scent Of Death

Number Of Different POVs: 8

ELLK'S POV (DISTRICT 10 GIRL)

The cool forest soil leeches the heat out of my body. I rub it into the pores of my skin while I plan my trap. I know for a fact that the District 7 girl, Cleo, is camped near me and I'm itching to spill some blood. The Hunger Games have gotten to the final eight and I don't have _any_ kills on the board. Just the thought makes me angry. I might be from District 10, but I've been training my whole life to knock those Career Tributes out of their little safety zone and they've managed to kill off half their allies already. I can't believe that _these_ were the Games I had to volunteer for; no wonder I haven't had any sponsors.

All of these plans are running through my head as I take a nice, long drink of water that I got from the Cornucopia when I threw myself into the thick of the fight. That's when the Gamemakers decide to strike.

I hear the danger before I see it: the crack of falling, splintering trees, the sounds of fear in animals that only a farmer can hear, and the long, low growl that fills the arena. Instantly I'm on my feet, running, not stupid enough to have deluded dreams about slaying that beast.

But my best isn't enough. I get a glimpse of the monstrous mutt that's on my trail. Twice the size of the average adult, the monster appears to have leather for skin, but leather that's been already cured. Its eyes are that of a cow, but glowing with anger instead of passive acceptance of death. It has horns that look ready to impale me. I'm running as fast as I can, and I've trained for this my whole life with one of the victors, but I can't last forever, especially since it attacked before I had a chance to eat.

I realize that my throat is burning harder than it should be, especially since I had a drink of water. That's when the heat registers: the Gamemakers have been raising the temperature during my chase.

I'm not going to survive this, not if the Gamemakers don't want me to. And I know that, with the heat how it is, they want another death. At any other moment, I might wonder about their reasoning, especially with three deaths yesterday. But my entire being is consumed by the need to survive; the need to flee.

My muscles are burning, but I hardly notice the pain. A fist crashes down next to me and picks up a tree by the roots. It comes tumbling down in front of me. One of the branches slices across my arm, a deep gash that demands treatment. But I don't have the time to do that. Had the mutt just aimed a little better, I would be dead. And I have no doubt the Gamemakers want it to spare me. They want a fight, but I don't have a weapon. So I keep running.

When I'm about to give up hope, I see a silver parachute. Somehow I find the strength to leap up and catch it. I discover a fine steel knife of the perfect weight and a handle that feels like home: leather. But it isn't enough to take out the giant mutt that's pursuing me without hesitation.

Suddenly, to catch it by surprise because I'm going to die soon if I don't, I spin around and, using the added power behind the sharp movement, I drive the knife to the hilt into the mutt's calf. Blood spills out, but not the crimson, human color. No, this blood is oily, slick, and the color of the sky at midnight.

I dance around the beast's leg, taking sudden jabs at it, hoping it will bleed to death. No such luck; the mutt doesn't seem to notice the pain. But it does react to my fighting. I know for a fact that every citizen of Panem is glued to their screens, some cheering me on, others knowing that if I survive their loved ones have a less chance of making it home, some only thinking about the money they have riding on the fight that could end my life.

The anger behind that thought surprises even me. I use it as a flame to drive me up into a jump; I might as well go out fighting. Time seems to slow down. I'm in midair. I drive my knife into the side of the mutt, twisting it in a motion that sparks a cry of pain, the first sign from this creature that it has feelings. I'm falling now, the power behind the jump gone. The claw of the mutt reaches out and my shirt snags on it. The thing lifts me up and for the first time I see its face: glowing yellow eyes, the pleading eyes of a cow, but hardened into anger. And then a cruel, vicious grin spreads across its face in anticipation of murder.

It rakes the claw from its other hand across my face. I taste blood. Then the malicious smile grows even larger as my confused brain tries to stab its hand with the knife. The mutt gabs me in its hand, squeezing harder and harder until I'm going to pass out when it suddenly takes its teeth and bites off my leg. Pain explodes in my body. I see a glimpse, behind me, of Cleo's horrified face. "Run!" I shout. "Run!" I don't know if she hears me, or if I even made a sound, because at that I moment I pass out, never to awaken again.

EDGAR'S POV (DISTRICT 3 MALE)

 _I'm running home and my mother is there, embracing me. I look into her eyes in surprise, for I thought she was dead from the factory explosion that destroyed so many lives. She caresses me lovingly. I smile. My younger sister, Lucendi, fast as she was—no, is, for I see right now, doesn't get there before my mom. She grabs my calf and I smile. "Hey, Luce. How are you doing?" I ask her. She smiles up at me. I bend down to scoop her up but my hands go right through her. Confused, I try again. I look down at my arms and realize I'm disappearing. Fading away. My mother and Lucendi are trying to grab me, to keep me here, but I'm leaving them against my will. Soon I fade away completely. In the background, I hear a cannon shot._

OSHER'S POV (DISTRICT 2 MALE):

Opthalmius. What a drain on resources— _my_ resources. I don't know why I even let him live as long as I did. But that ambush was a stroke of luck. I got Blon's weapon and two tributes off the board. I don't know where Ridgen went to, but he shouldn't be a problem. That sound of the cannon could have been him anyways. I know that I shouldn't jump to conclusions, that he could survive, that it could have just as easily been one of…the others. 11 still has as much hope as anybody, and they don't usually make it this far. So I shouldn't underestimate anybody, especially at this stage in the Games.

I want someone to come charging through the underbrush right now so I can kill them. Blon was too easy, too weak. The others left, whoever they are, would be the kind to run, not fight…most of the time. I just hope it comes down to me and an opponent that I can beat, but not someone too easy. The last thing I want is a victory moment where I just snap a neck. I want to see rivers of blood from my opponent; I want them to know they've lost just before death. I want to destroy.

When trouble comes, I'm ready. The girl from District Seven clearly worked up the nerve to come down from her hideout. I jump, expecting an easy attack, but out of nowhere is a stabbing pain in my gut. My hands are warm and sticky with blood and it isn't hers. She rushes me on the attack, not pausing. Of course not; she would exploit my moment of weakness., not wait for it to pass. I meet her with a thrust, aiming towards the heart, but she blocks and turns my own blade on me.

A searing pain hits me in the side but I hardly notice. Instead, I lash out at her and feel contact. I drive the knife in further, twisting it, hoping for the pain to knock her out. No such luck. The girl cries out in pain, but the whimper lasts less than a second before she comes back full-force. At any other time, if my life weren't on the line, I would be impressed by her endurance. But my life _is_ on the line, and she's attempting end it.

As she's running, I score a low hit, but she jumps, and instead of the smooth slice through the gut that I was aiming for, I get a light but long cut down the thigh. And then her blade is on me, in my eye, and I'm blinded by the blood. As I stagger backwards, she takes the opportunity to attack. I feel her knife in a thousand places, and then she's gone, fleeing the scene of her crime.

I still can't see and I'm afraid to move, afraid to walk into another tribute. But a tribute knows my general location and that I'm weak enough to be taken out and hurt enough to bleed to death, so I have to move. For all I know, she's going back to get her ally to help finish me off. But I doubt it. Just now, if she'd wanted to, one quick slice across the neck, or through a vital organ, could've ended it for me. So she probably choked, probably couldn't kill. If she's too weak to kill, I'll do it for her. I will survive this injury and I will find her and torture her to the point of death, and then I will finish her off, not leave her like she has left me.

The first thing to do is stop the blood. I know pressure will help, so I press on them as long as I can. There is always a sponsor out there who is willing to help a persistent Career Tribute, someone they have money on. So I look up, defying death, staring it right in the face, and hope beyond hope that medicine, that all-important savior, will come down to me. Nothing descends from the skies, not that I expected it to, at least not at first.

When nightfall comes, I see two faces in the sky. I suppose the other cannon shot came during battle when I was too preoccupied with my own life to hear the end of someone else's. One is Ellk, the girl from District Eleven, who I thought might have had a chance at victory, if not a large one. She seemed too strong to be taken out so easily. The other face is Edgar, the boy from Three. I wonder vaguely how he died: was he killed or did he die of natural causes? He ran the opposite way of me, so he could have found anything.

By midnight most of the bleeding has stopped. I doubt I will ever be able to see out of the eye that Cleo stabbed, a severe disadvantage in the Games. But with the blood washed out of the other one, I can see some things. Still, I don't see how I can survive. But I will—I have to. I have to become the victor of the 60th annual Hunger Games and, therefore, become unforgettable, I am sure of my survival by the time that sunrise comes.

OPTHALMIUS'S POV (DISTRICT 4 MALE)

I could have sworn that some big hand held the moon and dropped it out of the sky, causing the dawn to come faster than I thought possible. But these are the Hunger Games, and anything can happen.

The first thing I notice is that yesterday's intense heat wave has yet to leave and that the air is more humid than ever. _Why are they in such a hurry to finish the Hunger Games this year?_ An intriguing but irrelevant question that I have no time to dwell on.

I have to escape, but whatever they did is surprisingly effective. I can't get out by ramming my body into the bars, so I try to snap the wood. Sawdust and splinters escape into the air, making me double over in a coughing fit. When I recover, I find that they have run metal through the logs that they must have gotten from a

The heat is intense and the thirst threatens to kill me. I need to find water, or escaping this cage will do me no good. Unwillingly, my mind flashes back to random pieces of memory from District 4. It seems unreal that I was there just a few weeks ago.

 _The water laps at my ankles as I teach the younger kids how to swim. One of them, an especially bright little toddler named Squammiger, or Squammi for short, dives under for so long I'm sure he's died when, suddenly, he springs up out of the air and spits water at us. The toddlers freak out, but I just smile. Squammi is definitely going to grow up to be a victor._

I remember acutely that the scent of the breeze carried over from the water had been in the air then, but now I can only smell the scent of death. The scent of death which is everywhere in this horrible prison, this place that seems to suffocate even in the forest, where I should smell nothing but pine.

I know I'm going to die here, I know that District 4 will have no victor, not this year, that the hopes of an entire district were dashed the moment that the cage fell down around me.

Right now, I'm as good as dead, so I might as well not die in this slow, painful way. I bash my head on the exposed metal again and again, inviting death. I don't even get to hear the cannon boom for me.

RUSTICA'S POV (DISTRICT 11 FEMALE)

I'm dead weight. Well, living weight. Pruna's been dead for a while, and I'm going to be next. I should be dead, not Pruna, because I do nothing but consume our valuable resources. No wonder Triticum seems angrier every day. But these are not the kinds of things a tribute says in the arena. So I will have to act before Triticum does. I will have to kill the boy who saved my life—not my fault he was too merciful to survive. If it helps me, I won't turn down his mercy. But he doesn't get mine.

 _What did I just think? How can I, Rustica, the girl with the bad leg, kill my own district partner? I'd be a pariah when I returned to District 11—if I do. No, when I do, because I will._

The sword that Triticum got in a silver parachute, probably given to him by a rich, bloodthirsty sponsor that knew he'd put up a good fight with it, is lying next to him carelessly as he faces away from me. I sneak up on him as best I can, the agony exploding in my leg with each step, but just as my fingers close around the blade, he grabs it lightning-fast and stabs me in the ribcage with it, missing the fatal hit only because I jerked to the side just in time to prolong, but not save, my life.

TRITICUM'S POV (DISTRICT 11 MALE)

I stand over her writhing figure. _What have I done?_ Is all I'm good for in the Games killing off my allies? "You tried to break our alliance, Rustica," I say, unsure of where the words are coming from.

She gets out a wheezing, raggedy breath. "Why… are you … doing this… you've... won… already…" I can't answer her myself, so I continue making this help-less girl's dying moments miserable.

"We were helping each other out, helping each other survive. But no, you had to break the alliance and you tried to kill me, tried to put me in the position you are in. How does it feel, Rustica? How does it feel?"

I don't get a reply. She just moans in pain and then her cannon sounds, the noise ringing throughout the arena, echoing my deed. What an interesting time that Claudius must be having right now, talking about my "nice boy" disguise, ensuring that I will get either loads of sponsors or none, depending on the angle that I get portrayed in. But there is no time to worry about that, not now. I have to worry that, based on this cannon and the others that I've heard, I'm now in the top four, which means that there are three other people in this arena, and all of them are after me.

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT 7 FEMALE)

I still hear Ellk's last words echoing through my mind: "Run!" Is everyone in this arena, even the most fearsome killers, better people than I am? Even Ellk, who could've escaped with her life had she just headed towards me, or pointed me out to the beast, used her last moments to save me. Am I so despicable that the District Ten version of a Career is a kinder person than me?

 _No._ I can't afford to think like this. Some people are stupid, and they die for it, and other people, people like me, are smart and they are rewarded with life. _But just being smart isn't always enough_ —it will be.

I still have the image of Osher, stumbling away from me, bloody in a thousand different places and blinded in one eye. Letting him live was stupid; he's going to try to torture me to death the next time we meet. That's how the Careers work; that's how they think.

 _I am a coward._ No, no, no! Not now. I can't do this, not it the final four! _Warm heat bleeds out of the bread and into my body, the essence of life taken from the scent of death. I bite into the loaf, not bothering to slice it with my hands, and let the flavors sink in. I somehow manage to keep myself from eating the whole loaf at once; there is still half left when I'm done eating. My mind drifts off into a peaceful slumber, the first one I've had in years, and I manage to forget that I have blood on my hands—at least until dawn comes, its rosy color painting the sky._

I manage to break the spell by gulping down a huge glass of water. Then, with my hand gripped tightly around my weapon and my food by my side, I leave the spot I'm in to go search for another tribute, to get another kill.

RIDGEN'S POV (DISTRICT 7 MALE)

 _Only the best survive._ I see, in the distance, the figure of another tribute with his supplies spread out around him, a weapon in hand. The only gift I've gotten in the arena was that metal cage. I don't know who gave it to me or why, but I'm thank-ful nonetheless. Blon was mostly dead weight anyway; no, worse—Blon posed an important threat to me: his stupidity. He got himself killed; Opthalmius is dead, and I made it to the top four. If Cleo did as well, there is a half-and-half chance of District 7 winning this year.

I could take on Osher. I might be able to eliminate a very big threat in this year's Games. If I succeed, and I might because he's injured and unsuspecting, it would greatly increase my chances of winning. I'm about to do it when I remember: _Only the best survive._ Even when injured, compared to me, Osher's superior strength and training make him the best compared to me. If I want to survive, I will need a different tribute to take him out, preferably Triticum, so that the more significant threat will also be injured.

Just then, Claudius Templesmith's voice rings out across the arena. "Attention all Hunger Games tributes. There will be a feast at Cornucopia tomorrow at sunset. This feast will have not only food fresh from the Capitol, but also a variety of well- made weapons, each one suited to a different one of your strengths. That is all."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: I'm going to do another all-living-tribute POV chapter, because it was fun to write and (hopefully) fun to read. As of now, the living tributes are Osher, 2; Cleo, 7; Ridgen, 7; and Triticum, 11. Also, just as a side note, the reason that most of the tributes have weapons is because the Capitol citizens want to see some action. Thanks for reading and enjoy!**

Chapter 11: The Bloody Ground We Walk Upon

Number Of POVs: 4

OSHER'S POV (DISTRICT 2 MALE):

How am I supposed to make it to a feast in the shape I'm in? But I can't just pass up the opportunity for food when I clearly can't go hunting. _They'll slaughter me in no time flat._ I've just decided not to go when the thought, the inevitable thought, comes to me that the weapon there will be better than this lousy knife, and tuned to each of our strengths. For me, there will be a long sword, the kind that I can slice a person in half with in one swipe. Getting my hands on that is as good as victory, even with only one eye to see with in battle.

That's the problem, thoughs: I have to get my hands on it with only one good eye. I wonder what other weapons there will be and whom they will be for. I can't go but, really, can I afford not to go if it means no food and only a knife to defend with? I know the answer to that question but I really can't go.

 _But Cleo might be there,_ I remember. I can torture her—but no. I can do that when the Gamemakers drive us together, and I will be stronger as well. When noon comes, I'm still torn about whether or not I should make an appearance at the feast. The heat is intense and I need water, but I don't have any. _I'm going to die if I don't show up._ I decide to go there and at least scope out the situation, if not battle in it once and for all.

RIDGEN'S POV (DISTRICT 7 MALE)

A weapon. I have to go; I must. But sunset means reduced visibility and blood will definitely be shed in the form of sneak attacks and tests of new weapons. But the question is, what weapon will I get to have? Will I get an axe, because I'm from District 7? I hope not; I was never good with them and my time in the arena will not have remedied that. What I'm really itching to get my hands on is a spear, the kind that has a razor-sharp tip and is weighted perfectly, the kind I can impale the others onto all at once. But, for me, being short and unhealthily skinny, even my weapon of choice might not be enough to guarantee a win.

I climb over the treetops until I can see the golden gleam of the Cornucopia in the distance. That's when I swing down to mid-level on the thicker branches and I leap from one to the other like a squirrel—except that it isn't illegal to kill me.

When sunset finally arrives, I'm ready. Perched on the top of a branch, I jump down silently and run in for my weapon. But it isn't there. Neither are any other we-apons—just a huge platter of food. Confused, I take off in one direction then circle back around so that nobody will know I'm still there. Then, as I have done for most of this year's Hunger Games, I wait.

TRITICUM'S POV (DISTRICT ELEVEN MALE)

Ridgen darts off into the woods. Good. Now that he's gone, an unnecessary complication out of the way, I can focus on why our weapons aren't there. They're supposed to be. I don't see any of them; not a blade or bow in sight. Well, fine. If they want to make us come out into the open before giving us weapons, I'm not going to wait for someone else to make the first move, to have the advantage.

I stalk out into the middle like nobody's business, glaring at the tributes that I can't see but that I know are there. I enter the Cornucopia, stand behind the food table, and begin to eat. I go first for a warm loaf of bread, freshly delivered from the Capitol. The darkness is everywhere, but I can see enough to make out the figure of another tribute that's come to play.

Suddenly the food disappears and is replaced with weapons. They sprint the final few yards to the table of weaponry but I'm already there. They grab something, I can't tell what, and run off. I shoot an arrow in their direction with the bow that is clearly meant for me, but they are already gone by the time it impales itself into a tree. I wonder who that was and what weapon they seized.

Suddenly, out of the gloom, another faceless tribute emerges. I shoot an arrow at them and they stumble briefly but get back up again. I shout a curse and aim again, but suddenly there is a pain in my chest and I'm struggling to breathe. If they'd hit my heart I'd already be dead. I gasp for breath but I can't get enough. The small figure dashes over to me and extracts the spear that they tossed. I see the bow that I dropped but I can't reach it and I'm unable to use it anyway.

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT SEVEN FEMALE)

The whole scene unfolds in front of me and horror pulses through my body. First Ridgen rushes into and out of the scene fast enough that my killer instincts can't react. Then Triticum struts in, acting like he owns the place, and I could swear that he could see me because he sends a glare my way that sends the message better than any words: _Don't try anything or I'll kill you._ Then Ridgen runs in _again,_ steals a spear, and kills Triticum with it. We all hear his cannon boom. For the second time in these Games, a tribute has lain dying on the slick metal of the Cornucopia. Ridgen darts away and then I make my move.

I run in and my hands close around a dagger with a double blade that gleams in the moonlight. Osher sprints in and I see him turning in a circle, his depth percep-tion all thrown off by the injury. When his one good eye locks on me, I run away into the trees. Or I try to, but he's on me and I slam the dagger into his cheek, tearing the bloody flesh and I see a vaguely shocked expression on what's left of his face after the eye I stabbed turned purple and swelled shut, then became a bloody scab and now there's a cut on his cheek that tears straight through the skin. If he wins these Hunger Games then the Capitol will have a big job to fix him up and help him regain his vision.

As he runs for safety, I feel a memory coming on that I would rather suppress but I am helpless to its power. _The next morning I finish the bread and find myself coming back to the place where the girl died, her body safely hidden away from the world, never to see sunlight again. One day, I come to the spot and sit there, leaning against a building and thinking. People walk past me but don't spare even a glance. I stare at them in wonder how they don't realize that someone DIED here, someone's life was there one second and gone the next, a girl who had as much will to live as I did but ultimately didn't get lucky enough to survive. That was when I realized that Panem was built on bloody soil, and that I have always taken for granted this bloody ground we walk upon._


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: I can't believe that this is the last chapter for my fanfiction! It feels so… unreal, is the word, that I'm finishing it! I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing this! This will NOT be my last fanfiction, so keep your eyes peeled for more!**

Chapter 12: It Kills 24

Number Of Different POVs: 3

Number Of POVs: 8

RIDGEN'S POV (DISTRICT 7 MALE)

I killed someone. I mean, I killed Opthalmius as well, but I didn't stick a spear through him, I didn't see his dying eyes with a look that resigned itself to death, eyes full of hatred for me.

Seeing—his, I can't think his name again, I'm not _worthy_ of it—face in the sky today, the final legacy of the strong tribute from District Eleven. For the first time since entering the Games, I permit myself to think of my family: my seven siblings in the Justice Building, not understanding that I might not see them again—but now I have a chance to, now I might get a chance to see them. But the eighth, the oldest except for me at 10 years old, she understood what I was going up against: ruthless killers who would stop at nothing to make sure I don't get home.

The first thing I register when I wake up is the smell of damp soil. I drop from the tree that I'm perched in to look around. That's when I see the wave of water that is coming towards me. I instantly throw off my shirt so that it doesn't serve as extra weight. Then I drop everything but the spear and run.

My legs are pumping as hard as they can, fighting for longer strides. The trees are too low to keep me out of the water, so the only escape is forward. I don't like an escape route with no alternatives, but I don't have much choice unless I enjoy the feeling of drowning. I run and run because I can't swim, but it isn't fast enough.

As the wave overtakes me, I fight to stay above water, kicking my legs as fast as I can to keep from drowning. The current forces me under and I only have time for one breath of air before I'm plunged underwater.

My lungs scream as I fight to surface, but it's no use. I'll have to let go of the spear; the dense iron tip and stone handle make it too heavy to keep with me. I let go of it and manage to surface just before passing out.

When I get a breath of fresh air, I see that I'm almost at the Cornucopia. As I fight to stay afloat the wave peters out and my feet finally touch the ground again. I hide behind a tall oak tree, not wanting to make the first move when the wrong one could kill me.

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT SEVEN FEMALE)

The waves are lunging towards me, threatening to end my life. Without any thought, I start running. And running. And running. The pain in my legs, the jacket of weapons, the dagger clutched in one hand and the pistol in the other, become my entirety. I keep the jacket but strip off my shirt and slice off some of my pants to make them shorts because the less clothes on me, the better.

I feel the water lapping at my feet but I don't slow down. Suddenly a huge wave rises up behind me and crashes down, swallowing me up in the water. I catch only one gasping breath of air before the water swallows me under and I begin the fight for my breath, for my life, for victory.

OSHER'S POV (DISTRICT TWO MALE)

The cut on my cheek has stopped bleeding but hurts like hell when the salty water gets in it. I see a small figure in the trees. It must be Ridgen. I wonder how he survived. I learned to swim in my Career training, but in Seven it probably is not high on the list of priorities.

But if he's alive, Cleo might also be. Her cannon could easily have been lost in the rushing water. I hope she didn't drown; it wouldn't be a painful enough death for her. Luckily, I catch a glimpse of movement in a direction that isn't where Ridgen is; it must be her.

However, when it reveals itself, it isn't a tribute at all but instead a mutt. The creature has green scales and walks on all fours, close to the ground. It resembles a crocodile, but only vaguely. What crocodile has large dark-green wings and glowing red eyes? What crocodile stands up on its back legs and surveys the area, looking for prey? It has a forked tongue that flicks around and lets out a hiss then a low, long growl.

Someone has to make the first move or else this thing will. It's clear that the others, no matter how many of us that word refers to, are not going to. But I'm in too bad of a shape to attack. So I wait.

Suddenly the thing lunges towards the direction that Ridgen is, attacking him viciously, and I feel lucky that it didn't go for me.

RIDGEN'S POV:

The monster comes for me, teeth bared in hatred. I lost the spear to the wave, so the only way to kill this thing will be strangling it. I lock my arms around its neck and squeeze as hard as I can, hoping for it to die, but the scales act like armor that doesn't let me strangle it.

I keep my arms locked around its neck for as long as I can as it tries to sink its teeth into my chest, but I manage to stay on it. Its claws can't reach me, but suddenly it emits a loud, long roar and fire shoots from the darkness of its throat.

A nearby tree goes up in flames and I know that soon the forest will become ash. It runs into the fire and I soon realize that the flames don't affect it at all. But I am definitely not fireproof, as I am painfully reminded when the fire starts to kill me via burns.

I release the beast and run away, a section of my back blackened and numb from nerve damage. I can't run for long, though—upon entering the clearing, Osher runs straight at me. Without anything on me, my only hope is to make it over to the array of weapons that are, surprisingly, still there.

I sprint to the metal Cornucopia but just as I get close, Osher tackles me from behind, pinning me to the ground. He presses his knees into the burnt parts of my back that I can feel, the bright red ones. I want to scream in agony but I keep him from that satisfaction.

OSHER'S POV

I smile at the back of his head. If Cleo is dead, her partner is going to bear my revenge. I don't much care, to be completely honest. Then, with my sword, I slice off his left arm because he is trying to crawl towards Cornucopia. He doesn't scream. I remedy that by digging my sword into the burned part of his back, the bright red part, and twisting.

His shout rings out through the arena. Then I stab him in a thousand different places. _Give the audience a good show._ I can almost hear my District shouting it at me and comply.

Finally, after another thirty minutes or so of torturing him, I finish it with a long, deep cut across his spine and wait for him to bleed to death, which doesn't take a while. I step back and listen to the cannon, watch the hovercraft.

Why don't the trumpets ring out, declaring my victory? Anger pulses through me when I realize the answer. _That little—oh, she will pay. She will pay her life for what she has done to me._

CLEO'S POV:

I'm a horrible person. After fighting for my life in the water, after kicking my legs and pushing through the water, I came in time to see Osher tackle Ridgen. But I also saw the lizard mutt, the one whose eyes locked on me.

I sneak around the outside to it, afraid to fire my pistol in case they hear the noise. So I wait to lunge and watch Ridgen dying. I could shoot Osher, could save my District partner's life. But I can't kill Ridgen myself. I just can't. _I am a coward._

The mutt lunges at me and I try to attack it with my dagger, but the blade bounces harmlessly off. I need to shoot it. So I wait and, as the cannon booms, I fire at the creature, my bullet disguised by the cannon.

Osher looks up at the sky and waits. _He thinks I'm dead! I can shoot him now; I can win._ But I have only five shots left, and to miss would be death. I wouldn't get a chance to attack him again.

I run up from behind and stab at him with my dagger. But this is the Hunger Games, and the Gamemakers need action. So the ground he's on starts to rise up. And so does mine. Suddenly we are level with the platforms we started on. _No. Not more heights. I won't let this happen again._

The thought occurs to me that Osher probably has much more to live for than I do at home. What do I have? A life on the streets—no, in the Victor's Village. But I don't have anyone to live for, just myself.

And it's enough, enough to slam me out of my thoughts and into reality as he attempts to push me off to the ground. I meet ˙his blade with my own dagger and we fight, but he has a distinct advantage with a much longer blade.

I'm at the edge of my pillar, close to falling to my death. He doesn't pause and just relentlessly pushes me back further and further and further. Just as I'm about to fall off, I come back at him with an attack to his gut, far below fighting distance. He blocks it easily, and I expected nothing less, but it's enough time for me to regain my footing and push forward again.

I take the pistol and fire straight at his skull. He barely dodges and it hits his jaw. I see hatred in his eyes but I ignore it and push forward. Suddenly the small gap between us is filled by another pillar, and another, and another, until we are on a huge platform in the sky.

I push down my fear of heights and, while I keep him off with one hand, I secretly grab a throwing knife from my jacket with the other. I toss it at him and we are so close that of course I get a clean hit just below the neck. He falls to the ground, blood burbling from his mouth as he struggles to survive.

OSHER'S POV

 _I see my mentor standing over me, smiling, extending a hand. I take it, surprised at how whole and complete my body is. "Time for the reaping," he says and I realize it has al been a bad dream… a bad dream… a bad dream where I lie dying on the rock but not the ground, dying at the hands of a girl from District Seven who can kill better than a Career apparently can. Who knows, maybe she was a serial killer back home. Whatever the case, in the dream I was dying and she was winning and winning and I was dying and it was a bad dream and I wake up and my mentor becomes her and it was all a bad, bad dream, and I sink into sleep…_

CLEO'S POV

He's gone. I can see in his eyes when they go dull, I hear the cannon sound in the back of my mind, I can feel the sadness of a victor and none of the pride. I stay in that moment while I am loaded into the hovercraft. I stay in that moment while I see the highlights of the Games. I stay in that moment while President Snow places a crown on my head. I stay in that moment on the Victory Tour, and in the Capitol with many people, being sold by Snow. I stay in that moment until the time, years later, when I realize something: the Hunger Games every year kills not 23 people, but 24.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: I can't believe I finished the Hunger Games fanfiction! So, I was going to end it with that last chapter, but you guys asked for one more chapter, so here it is. I'm going to make it official: this is the last chapter of the 60** **th** **Hunger Games fanfiction that I have written. Wow. Did I really just type that? I want to give a shout-out to anyone who is reading this or has been following the storyline. Also, although I'm not superstitious, I like the idea of ending this story with Chapter Thirteen. Anyways, enjoy!**

Chapter 13: Shipwrecked

Number Of Different POVs: 1

CLEO'S POV (DISTRICT SEVEN VICTOR)

One night, several years after victory as I lie in bed with a stranger, I see the details of the moment in which I won that were blocked even as the event happened by my own mind.

Osher looks up at me, no longer the ruthless killer from District Two; not the handsome and manipulative boy that the Capitol citizens went crazy over, but just a scared kid that wants to live and to see his family again. The blood from that final, deadly wound that put a family to mourning, a boy to death, and me to victory, came from his mouth and streamed from his neck. He gasped for air, struggling for life. I don't turn away from the convulsing boy on the platform, but I don't end his misery either like he asks me to with his last words: "Please… end it… please."

I don't end it for him. I just watch, transfixed by horror, paralyzed by fear, as he goes limp, as his eyes lose their light, and I scream for him. I scream at the sky, ask it why it has done this to us all, even though I know no sound is coming out and I am not in the arena, even though I am in a hovercraft and I am dying from several wounds that the Capitol doctors somehow fix to make me fresh and clean and fake, a fake version of myself that is happy and calm and aristocratic, a version of myself that does not exist.


End file.
